


Survivor's Remorse

by Dragomir



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Abuse, Collars, Dehumanization, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Psychological Torture, Torture, Varian lives and regrets it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: Varian survives the battle at the Broken Shore.  He wishes he hadn't.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this year's nano. The summary in the doc actually is 'Varian Wrynn survives the Broken Shore and regrets it.'

He was supposed to be _dead_.

That had been the point:  One last sacrifice, and his people walked away.  He died.  He became a martyr.  The Alliance crushes the Legion with a vengeance.  That had been the _point_.

He was supposed to have died.

Instead, he was alive.  He was alive, his sacrifice had amounted to _nothing_ , and the worst part was that he had to listen to Gul’dan _gloat_ about it.

The gloating was the worst part.  Gul’dan had been a childhood nightmare, one that he had never really gotten over.  Even when he had learned about the warlock’s death, years after the orcs had been crushed and risen again, he had never been able to shake old nightmares of the warlock.  Now, he was faced with another version of his childhood terror, and there was no Lothar to save him.

The King of Stormwind bowed his head and felt his eyes burn with tears he could no longer shed.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, y'know, welcome to the weekly 'Let's Torture Varian Show'.

The cage sat alone on the field before the Tomb of Sargeras, occupied by a single human male.  The lone occupant sat on the ash-covered ground, back pressed against the fel-tainted metal bars, eyes closed.  Hot wind blasted past the bars, ruffling long, tangled black hair as it passed him by.  The few demons patrolling the field kept their distance from the cage, as instructed.  No one, save Gul’dan, was allowed to approach the cage.

To the occupant, one Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind and High King of the Alliance, that bit of information meant nothing; or, would have meant nothing, had he known it.  Having one visitor or having many meant nothing, when the only visitors were bent on the destruction of his world.  (Not when one of them was a recurring childhood nightmare, brought to painful life again.)

Varian’s eyes opened as the ground trembled.  The wind stopped blowing directly into his face and he blinked a few times, trying to rid his vision of the black grime that had accumulated on his lashes as he dozed.  He gave up after a few seconds and stared blearily at the unexpected visitor.  (Champion Danville had claimed the only way to get rid of the grime was a bath hotter than the Great Forge and a good, stiff-bristled brush.)  His expression turned into a grimace as the shape resolved into a familiar creature:  Gul’dan stood before him, resting his gnarled body’s weight on an equally gnarled staff.  The orc warlock’s lips curled around his jutting, yellowing tusks in a smile that looked more like a grimace, red eyes gleaming with a sinister light.

Varian stared back, unwilling to initiate conversation.  He’d rather conserve his energy and what little moisture his mouth still retained for something better than speaking to the warlock.  No doubt the foul creature had only come to gloat, or offer some reprieve for the low, low price of his soul.  (A joke from the champion’s warlock friend; that one, at least, had been palatable.)

The warlock broke their silence first, when it became apparent Varian would spend the time staring.  “The High King still draws breath.”  His smile twisted into something more malicious and Varian, to his credit, managed to hide the flinch before the warlock saw it.  His injured shoulder ached with a dull, throbbing pain to remind him – as if he could have forgotten – just how dangerous Gul’dan could be when he saw an opportunity.  “My soldiers tell me your funeral was a _delight_.”  The warlock laughed, tone mocking.  Varian clenched his hands and remained silent.  He would _not_ rise to the warlock’s bait.  “Your little alliance is crumbling,” Gul’dan continued, leaning on his staff.  “The blonde witch deserted your brat.  The elves are soon to follow, and the mongrels have vanished.  Only the prophet remains steadfast in his defense of your idiot whelp.”

A muscle in Varian’s jaw twitched.  The warlock was _lying_ , trying to get a rise out of him.  Jaina would stay with the Alliance, no matter what happened.  High Priestess Tyrande knew the cost of a divided front against the Legion, and would stay.  She was good at waiting games.  Genn would never abandon the Alliance, not when he had vengeance on his mind.  Prophet Velen, of course, would stay to counsel Anduin, that much at least was the truth.

“Your people blame the Horde for your death.  My spies tell me your whelp is planning an attack on them for their betrayal.”

Another lie.  Varian’s hands clenched and he hissed as the movement jostled his bad shoulder.  He had never realized just how much his shoulders moved until it had become a battle with agony every time he breathed and his arm shifted.

“The Horde’s warchief is…planning her own attack, as my spies report.”

 _Her_.  Varian’s breath caught in his chest.  Vol’jin had died then.  He bowed his head and swallowed, feeling a pang of regret.  He’d…not grown fond, exactly, of the troll, but the Darkspear chieftain had been hard to dislike.  He was no Go’el, to make great strides to put people at ease, but he was easy-going and not prone to rages or megalomania.  Sylvanas, on the other hand… There had been the Undercity and what she had allowed to fester under her nose, and he’d heard enough stories about what she had done to Gilneas from Genn, colored by the worgen king’s hatred of course, but… She was more mercenary than a goblin sometimes.  He could respect her as a warrior, but as the warchief?  He had his doubts.

“What do you _want_?” Varian ground out, voice raspy.  His lips, chapped by the harsh wind and unrelenting heat, split; he licked the blood off them absently, grimacing at the taste.  Salt and copper, tainted by fel ash chased over his tongue, making his stomach clench and roil at the taste.  If there had been anything left in his stomach, he might have retched it back up.  He hadn’t eaten since early morning on the day the combined might of the Alliance and the Horde had pushed up the beach to the Tomb of Sargeras.  That had been a week ago; his stomach had stopped rumbling a day ago, but bile still rose in his throat when the scent of cooking meat made it to him.  (The meat was most likely from the bodies of Crusaders, and that thought more than anything else made Varian retch.)

Gul’dan shrugged, still smiling.  The gesture was so reminiscent of Champion Danville that Varian winced.  The warlock’s eyes glinted menacingly, and Varian shut his, not wanting to see the expression.

“The death of your world would please me,” the warlock said, tone mild as though he were merely discussing the weather.  “For now, watching your Alliance fall to in-fighting under your brat’s rule will do.”  He smiled widely, showing off his yellowed teeth, and then turned and shuffled away, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff.

Varian leaned his head back against the bars of the cage, mentally flinging epithets from the Crimson Ring and a foul suggestion of what Gul’dan could do with himself at the warlock.  He rubbed his face with one hand, swearing under his breath, words rasping out of his too-dry throat.  He wished, not for the first time, that Gul’dan would finally kill him.

At some point, he began to doze, body twitching at the slightest noise.  Fel bats circled overhead, screeching at each other in a violent cacophony that would test the patience of a dragon.  Demons hurled words at each other in their language as they patrolled, and imps shrieked madly as they ran maddening circles around the plane.

He dreamed of the Crimson Ring.  The enemies were monstrous, twisted things he couldn’t discern the shape of; all of them were shadow and crimson blood, reaching for him with twisted claws and –

He awoke with a snarl, slamming wildly against the bars of his cage before he was even fully aware of his surroundings.  A _nightmare_.  He shuddered again, breath wheezing and catching in his chest, rubbing his injured shoulder in an attempt to ward off the chill.  His cloak had been taken shortly after his capture; the last he had seen of the heavy maroon wool, fel hounds had been using it in a game of tug-o-war.  The heavy fur mantle had been tossed to the beasts soon after, and Varian had been tossed into his cage.  The portal had died down to a bare flicker, taking the incessant heat with it.  Varian shivered again, perversely wishing the portal would reopen, if only so he didn’t freeze to death.

An imp’s claws skittered over his shoulder, grazing the edge of the barely-treated gash where the terror guard had impaled him a week ago.  He twisted and thrashed, trying to throw the horrific little creature off, grabbing blindly for the chittering demon as panic set in as the pain grew.  He went limp when the imp’s clawed hands dug into the meat of his shoulder and gouged the wound open again, pain whiting out his thoughts.

His injured shoulder was a reminder of the folly of fighting insurmountable odds.  After Gul’dan had nearly burned him to death – _why had the warlock saved him?_ – an Eredar warlock had pulled the warped plates of his chestpiece away from his shoulder and had picked shards of metal and bits of cloth out of the gaping wound with all the delicate grace of a child pulling the wings off a fly.  The wound had been left open to the elements; ensuring a wound didn’t fester or heal over a foreign object was, apparently, the extent the Legion’s healing abilities.  (Or, more likely, they weren’t going to waste the effort and make escape attempts easier for him.)

He snarled and ground his teeth together as the imp scampered away, laughing shrilly.  Warm blood soaked the ragged remains of his jerkin and tunic, dripping slowly down his back.  The imps who roamed this field were most often bound to a warlock, but there were enough of the creatures who _weren’t_ bound to a warlock’s will and, by extension, to Gul’dan’s direct orders to leave him be.  The fel creatures had woken him from sleep five times now, peeling his skin off in thin layers or scratching at his face and eyes, chittering loudly in mangled common about what he must taste like.  He groaned as his freshly re-injured shoulder hit the bars too hard, eyes rolling in pain.  As the pain began creeping into every fiber of his being, Varian swore he could hear Gul’dan’s laughter somewhere in the distance.

 

A day later, when the wound had clotted and the barely-healed tissue pulled uncomfortably at his tunic under his jerkin, Gul’dan returned with several demons and a malicious smile on his face.

The demons opened the cage at the warlock’s instruction and dragged Varian from it by his ankles, laughing darkly as he bit back strangled cries of pain as his damaged shoulder was jostled.  They dropped him at Gul’dan’s feet, where he lay, panting for air that had become too hard to come by recently, eyes burning from unshed tears of agony.  He was hauled upright and deposited on his knees before he could recover his breath, and he let his head fall to his chest, eyes closed.  If he could just doze off, forget the pain immobilizing his shoulder…

A large, gnarled hand twisted in his tangled hair, pulling his head back at a painful angle so he was forced to look directly at his captor.  Varian’s lips curled back from his teeth as Gul’dan leered down at him, looking more malicious than usual.  The High King wished, just for a moment, that he had enough moisture to spit in the orc’s face.  He would no doubt be beaten for the action, but…

The old warlock released Varian’s hair and said something to his minions, who grabbed Varian by the shoulders and his hair, holding him in place for whatever the warlock had planned.  The orc reached into his tattered robes, face twisted into a mask of nightmarish glee.  Varian spat a few curses at the orc, words rasping out of his parched throat and across a tongue that felt too heavy to be his.  The warlock was more amused by the human’s rasping curses and threats, and that caused a tiny flicker of rage to well up in Varian’s chest.  It died as the warlock spoke to his minions again, in the same tongue they used; Varian’s skin _crawled_.  Although he had never been as in-tune with the Light as his wife and son, he still had enough of a connection to be discomfited by the presence of the fel.  (Even the warlocks of Azeorth were discomfited by the raw power of the Legion.)  The hands in his hair tightened and Varian let out a strangled yelp as some of his hair parted ways with his scalp.

“Be gentle with my mongrel,” Gul’dan snapped, speaking Common; Varian supposed it was for his benefit more than any other reason.  The massive hand clamped on his injured shoulder squeezed and white flashed across his vision, a broken moan of pain spilling out of his lips before he could stop it.  Something circled his neck, scratching at soft skin like an imp’s claws and he whined, trying to squirm away before the creature could do something irreparable.

The warlock drew back, as did the demons.  Varian reached up, tentatively, to touch the thing circling his throat.  It was a barbed chain, as far as his searching fingers could tell.  He had seen collars like this during his time in the Crimson Ring – the gladiator teams that fielded animals for fights used them to drive their beasts into a pained frenzy, make them eager to kill.  It made the fights more interesting, according to their twisted logic.  He shuddered, already imagining the damage this chain would do to his soft, furless throat. A demon shoved him face-first into the ground and Varian grunted as his nose impacted with the earth.  Not hard enough to break, but enough to cause pain.  He stayed where he was, not eager to know if Gul’dan would use the same trick Rhegar had once used, to heat the collar until it burned, to punish his slave’s disobedience.  Varian still had a faint scar ringing his collarbone from where the metal ring had burned him; he’d never attempted to bite Rhegar after that.  Not that he’d ever stopped resisting the orc, but…

“ _Good mongrel_ ,” Gul’dan cooed mockingly.  Varian grunted in disgust, watching the warlock’s feet move out of the corner of his eye, tattered robes dragging along the ash-covered earth. He wondered if he would be able to predict a kick before the warlock lifted his foot from the ground.  (No, he wouldn’t.  If anything, the warlock would order one of his minions to deliver the beating, and offer suggestions from the sidelines.)

“Not…” Varian growled, nose and cheek pressed hard to the ground, “a… _mongrel!_ ” He snarled as Gul’dan’s feet came closer to his face, tattered robes brushing against his nose.  Varian’s smile turned feral as the warlock stopped, feet less than an inch from his nose.  He lunged, movement awkward, and snapped his teeth shut around green flesh, biting down until something gave.  He had been called worse things than ‘dog’ and ‘mongrel’ in his lifetime, but people forgot:  He was a _wolf_ , and wolves were not _pets!_

A beaten dog would return eventually.

A beaten wolf would tear your throat out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: It does not get better for him.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh.....just setting up some groundwork for the rest of the story here.

The demons had hung him by his wrists between two tall, fel-metal posts for attacking Gul’dan.

Varian had paid dearly for attacking the warlock – a vicious beating in exchange for a single bite.  Still, the warlock remembered that he had caged a wolf, not a trained dog.  If he had been able to summon the energy, Varian would have smiled.  His face was tender where the warlock’s staff had cracked repeatedly against his cheek, forcing him to unlock his jaw to escape the new torment.  The sight of Gul’dan hopping awkwardly on one foot had made Varian laugh even as the terror guards had beaten him, and had no doubt prolonged the beating.  It had all been worth it.

A terror guard had kicked him in the ribs, cracking two of them.  Any harder, and those same ribs would have shattered, puncturing a lung as they moved inwards.  He’d have drowned in his own blood, which had seemed an enticing prospect at the time.  The wounds on his shoulder had reopened and were in the process of clotting again, leaving his back from shoulder to buttocks tacky with dried blood and gore.  Hanging by his wrists had not mitigated the damage, and the agony was almost constant as he twitched, feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick ground below him as the wind rocked his body.  Varian’s head felt odd – light, but too heavy to lift at the same time.   He’d only ever felt this awful when he had become too ill to leave bed.

He shifted and a low whine of pain escaped his lips.  The last time he had been in this much pain, he had been six and his pony had thrown him, leading to a broken collarbone.  Even the smallest movement had caused waves of unbearable heat an inescapable nausea, and had set him to crying until his head ached.  Which, perversely, had made him cry more.  His father had sat with him for hours at a time, and Lord Lothar had sat with him while his father fulfilled his duties as king.  There was no one to sit with him now, and Varian felt a vague sort of anxiety over the lack of companionship.  He supposed it was a product of the anguish that came with his arms being wrenched up.  His right arm burned from the scars left from the fel fire Gul’dan had tortured him with a week ago.  His left arm… His left arm was not meant to bend anymore.  The bone plate of his shoulder was healing wrong, and Varian had to bite back the scream bubbling up in his throat every time his left arm shifted.  He hadn’t been able to lift his arm in two days, and hadn’t been able to raise his hand above his hip in three.  The terror guards had been delighted when he had screamed as they chained him in place, and had stayed until he finally passed out from the sheer agony blinding him to all else.

The dull sharpness of the collar around his neck anchored him in his new reality:  Beaten, chained out in the elements, and collared like an ill-mannered hound.  He felt a bitter laugh bubble up in his throat, only to die upon encountering his chapped, cracked lips.

His attempts to doze off to escape the pain were thwarted by his constant, unintentional jarring of his injured shoulder.  His head would droop until it hit his chest and he would almost fall asleep, only to startle awake – jostling his shoulder in the process.  The chain around his neck moved seemingly of its own accord each time, barbs digging into his skin.  Twice now, he had been convinced that the sharp pricks of pain had been a questing imp and had struggled wildly to dislodge the creature, serving only to jar his shoulder further.  The pain had become white-hot and almost blinding as he realized the skittering creatures with their high-pitched laughter weren’t crawling across his body, trying to peel his skin off for a snack.  It was a small comfort.

The spikes had become a dull curiosity; one that prevented him from sleeping, but otherwise causing no real harm.  He had endured _worse_.  On the scale of his life, from a somewhat beloved family friend murdering his father, to being reassembled by magic after having been torn in half, this ranked somewhere on the low end of the scale.  That thought did make him laugh, a choking, rusty wheeze passing over his cracked lips.  Here he was, the prisoner of an evil so foul no one could really comprehend it, and he was trying to rank the _pain_.  The laughter took on a manic edge, shaking his body even through the pain.

Varian shifted in his bonds when the moment passed and his head had cleared, trying to find a position even marginally more comfortable, or even less agonizing, for his injured shoulder.  He could, and had, endured almost everything this world had thrown at him, but a poorly-healing injury like this one…  This injury was beginning to press even the limits of _his_ Titanic endurance, and he was sure Gul’dan _knew it_.

He licked his chapped lips and, before he could think better of it or lose his energy, yelled.  “Gul’dan! Gul’dan, you misbegotten son of an ogre!  Come here and kill me, you honorless bastard!”  The words were weak and rasping and barely carried; in his defense, he was so tired and air was so hard to come by now, lungs and heart beating hard against his chest as the muscles strained to work, unable to draw in air.  Added to that, he was starving and dehydrated, and an infection was slowly burning into his injured shoulder.

“ _Gul’dan_!” His voice cracked and he began coughing, rattling his entire body.  He wasn’t sure his words had even carried to the roach skittering across the ground at his feet.  “Gul’dan, you honorless son of an ogre! Limp back here and fucking _kill me!_ ”  He screeched the last two words, voice cracking into a high, dry shriek soon lost on the wind.  He panted, chest heaving heavily as air rasped out of his burning lungs.  Yelling had been a poor, too impulsive decision on his part.  His shoulder felt like it was starting part ways with his body, and somehow, that would be a _relief_ from the agony.

Varian sagged in his bonds, feet skidding across the black ash coating the ground.  He would keep fighting as long as he had the strength to, and beyond that point if he could still move.  It would be entirely a matter of pride at this point, because…

Oh _Light_.  He _knew_ there was no ransom in his future, no gallant escape.  Gul’dan was only keeping him alive to gloat about Legion victories to someone who cared.  (Or as a shield against Champion Danville, should she ever discover her king was alive.  Unlikely, but then, she _was_ the Champion…)  The warlock would not seek to use him to gain gold or weapons or men.  The Alliance would no doubt think he was a Dread Infiltrator, something he had heard tell of and seen too many times even before taking ship for the Broken Shore.  No, he realized, there was no ransom in his future — just a severely truncated life sentence as Gul’dan’s human punching bag.

_And speak of the devil…_ Varian thought, seeing the ugly, familiar silhouette shuffling down the path from the ridge towards where he was chained.  He coughed, feeling something in his side move in a way it shouldn’t have.  Perhaps he should start keeping a list of what _hadn’t_ been damaged, at the rate of abuse he was currently suffering.  He laughed at the thought and winced as his cheekbone protested the abuse he had inflicted on it over the past few minutes.

Gul’dan shuffled down the incline, still leaning heavily on his staff.  Varian watched the warlock move through his lashes, wondering idly if the stilted movements were a result of a childhood injury or some side effect of dealing with demons.  (One of the warlocks who made their home in Stormwind had informed him that interacting with demons _always_ carried a price.  Some might pay it with their bodies.  Others paid with their minds.)  The orc came to a halt in front of the High King, and the human imagined he could hear the warlock wheezing.  It almost brought a smile to his face.

“Despite your insults,” the warlock rasped, tipping Varian’s head up with his staff so they were eye to eye, “you will live.”  The orc smirked, red eyes glinting ominously.  “You will live, and you will watch as your world falls.”  Varian shivered at the soft declaration, fear curdling in his gut as the warlock turned away to continue his slow trek towards the Tomb of Sargeras.

_You will live_.

 

Gul’dan’s declaration held true the next day, and the next, and…

Varian shook his head in agitation, trying to clear the cobwebs from his thoughts.  How many days had it been since the warlock’s promise?  How long had he hung between these pillars?  He…he couldn’t remember.  _Didn’t_ remember.  His strength had fled some time ago, at least.  He had stopped trying to lift his head quite a while ago.  Moving meant white spots dancing in front of his eyes, his gut roiling unpleasantly in a manner reminiscent of seasickness.  He had spat up nothing but bile, stomach protesting even that.  His throat burned from the acid and his mouth burned as what little moisture had remained was seared away when he spat bile to the ground.  Some of it had dried on his chin, sticky and too foul-smelling to let him even doze.

He wondered, dully, not for the first time, if the warlock knew what it took to keep a human alive.

If his estimation of time was correct, he had perhaps a day before the dehydration began to kill him.  Two days, at most, before he started to starve to death in a literal sense.  Or one day, and the lack of water combined with spitting bile to the ground would compound to start killing him _now_.  He grimaced and ran his tongue over his lips, encountering only chapped, cracked skin that tasted vaguely of fel-tainted ash and the old-copper-coin taste of blood.  The wind had been relentless today, blowing fine grit into his eyes and nose, and little bits and pieces of rock and ash into the various abrasions and open wounds on his body.

Two days, at most, and he could start dying.

The thought was disturbingly comforting.

The High King smiled, chapped lips cracking open and beginning to bleed.  When he died, he could see Tif again.  Tell her all the stupid shit he’d gotten into, and what a fine young man their son had…grown…into… _Anduin_.  His so-

Cold water splashed into his face, jolting him from his reverie.  He jerked in his chains and screamed as he jostled his bad shoulder, still trying to scramble away from whatever had hit him.  He shivered as the wind blew past him again, stirring the chilly drops of water on his face.  He blinked a few times, shivering harshly as the water dripped down his face to land on his chest.  A succubus held an empty bucket in one hand and their whip in the other, staring at him as though it wanted to eat him.  He shuddered and ducked his head, looking away from the foul creature.

The succubus touched his shoulder and Varian coughed and choked back a scream as his shoulder bent the wrong way, sending the mangled pieces of the bone plate grinding against each other.  The succubus smiled in apparent delight, delicate fingers trailing over his shoulder, pressing into the open wound near his chest just to hear him sob in pain.  The succubus laughed and pressed a searing kiss to his lips before spinning on its hooves, sashaying away with the bucket swinging by their side. 

Varian waited until the thing was out of sight before cautiously trying to lick some of the water droplets up.  He gagged and retched, but thirst won out.  The water tasted _foul_ , like tainted sea water, and somehow _worse_ than even that.  But it was water, and…  His tongue darted out  again, collecting a few more precious drops of moisture.  He was so _thirsty…_

A dry sob escaped his throat and Varian squeezed his eyes shut.

He was so _thirsty_.

The water dried eventually, leaving salty patches on his skin that pulled uncomfortably; Varian was left feeling keenly aware of just how little water he had managed to lap up.  Perversely, he was thirstier than he had been before and his throat was burning like fel fire with the need for an actual mouthful of water, no matter how foul it was.

The sob built up in his chest and before he could stop himself, the noise spilled out of him in great gasps of pain and despair that shook his body.  Was this all it would take to break him?  A single mouthful of water?

 

At the mouth of the tomb, Gul’dan watched. 

And smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are gonna be at least once a week, depending on how fast I get the polishing done on them.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan is creepy and terrible, but we already knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Gul'dan is a creepy bastard and Varian suffers for it. (Again.)
> 
> Chapter warnings: Emetophobia, forced cannibalism

Two days later, Varian was unchained and allowed to drop to the ground.  He stayed on his knees, head bowed and breath coming in shallow pants, too dizzy and too nauseous to look at his captors or move.  One of the warlocks – an eredar, this time, with the requisite horde of chittering, chattering imps following them – locked a heavy chain to the loop of metal dangling against his collarbone and pulled until Varian managed a slow shuffle forward on his knees to escape the pain of sharp spikes digging into his soft, unprotected neck.  Not satisfied with his slow shuffle, apparently, the warlock yanked sharply upwards.  Varian let out a soft, warbling cry of pain, thrashing against the ash-covered ground as he tried to stand and relieve the pressure around his neck.  He kicked weakly at the ground as he got his feet under him, running purely on an animal need to survive and escape the pain being inflicted on him _now_.

“Don’t damage the mongrel,” someone snapped.  Varian was dropped to the ash-covered ground, pressure disappearing almost immediately.  He stayed there, eyes closed against the pain from landing on his injured shoulder, neck beginning to prickle with the same pain as the spikes lining the inside of the metal band around his throat slackened.  Hands grabbed his uninjured arm and hauled him to his feet, almost brutal in their strength.  The warlock grabbed his injured shoulder and Varian hung limply between the two as he was dragged away from the posts, feet and chain leash leaving trails in the black ash behind him.

The former High King was dropped to the ground a few minutes later and he lay where he had been dropped, breath coming in ragged wheezes.  The ground under him was almost as soft as the bed he had left behind in Stormwind, somehow, and far softer than the ground in the cage Gul’dan had locked him in after not-killing him.  For a given value of the term, this was the most Light-blessed thing he’d lain on in…weeks.  He kept his eyes shut, unwilling to ruin the illusion he had built in his mind – a world where he was safe in Stormwind Keep, in bed, with Tiffin, and no Legion poised to destroy his world.

The smell of cooking meat met his nose and Varian gagged.  It smelled like _pork_.  He hadn’t been able to stomach the scent since he was a small child – burning people, as it so happened, smelled like cooking pig.  He curled up, stomach rumbling.  The smell was sweet, but he hadn’t eaten anything in _days_ , and…  He gagged again, covering his mouth with one hand. 

_Cooking people smell like cooking pork_.

He opened his eyes, reluctantly, as something heavy moved in front of his face.  Dark, tattered robes swept by, cloth brushing against his nose and kicking up small puffs of ash and dirt.  Varian coughed again, breath wheezing and catching in his chest.  He uncurled, stomach still rebelling at the smell of cooking, too-sweet meat, and rolled onto his knees carefully.  He looked up after his stomach had stopped rebelling at the motion and saw Gul’dan reclining on a throne.  There was no way else to put it – Gul’dan had acquired a _throne_ somewhere.  It looked too much like the one in Orgimmar, the one Garrosh Hellscream had lounged on before the champions of two factions had struck him down.  Orcs, it seemed, had a decorating preference that tended towards skulls, leather, and _tusks_.

He bowed his head again as Gul’dan bit into a hunk of pinkish-red flesh, bile rising in his throat.  The smell was coming from the meat, and he knew what it was.  He swallowed the bile back and waited for Gul’dan to speak, or to taunt him, or do whatever it was he had dragged him up here to do.

“Do you want to eat, mongrel?”

Varian winced at the sound of teeth tearing into flesh met his ears.  He could imagine what had caused it – Gul’dan, biting into his mystery meat and ripping a chunk out, as though he were eating an apple.  He grimaced at the mental image and—even as his stomach growled loudly enough that he was certain the warlock had heard—he shook his head.  He wasn’t hungry.  Not for what the warlock was offering.

The warlock laughed, knowing Varian was lying.  Something heavy landed on the ground before him and Varian shuddered as the smell of cooking pork became closer to him, harder to escape.

“Pick it up.”

Varian shook his head, hands clenching and unclenching reflexively, breath heavy in his chest.  “ _Fuck you_ ,” he rasped, breath stuttering in his lungs and catching in his throat.  He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a growl, feeling like the wolf he had been named for in Dire Maul.

“Pick. It. _Up_.”

Without warning, the collar around his throat burned white-hot, searing his neck with a final-feeling sort of agony.  If he had been able to draw air into his lungs, past the pain of feeling as though he were being cremated, he would have screamed until his throat bled.  After an eternity of burning agony, the collar cooled under his fingers.  He unhooked his fingers, hands shaking, pulse pounding in his ears.  He hissed in pain as he drew his fingers away from the spikes lining the collar, curling his fingers protectively towards his palms.  The former high king looked up at the warlock, who smiled like the cat who’d eaten a canary.

“ _Pick. It. Up_.”  The warlock enunciated each word, as though Varian were a dull, dim-witted child.

Varian’s hands shook as he reached for the hunk of flesh on the ground and cradled it in his hands as though it were a Gallywix Special or one of Mekkatorque’s more volatile creations, liable to explode at any second.  The warlock leaned back in his throne as Varian stared at him through his lashes.  He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, wondering what the warlock would do to him next.  What possible agony could the warlock inflict on him that could be worse than _this_?

“Eat, little king,” the warlock ordered, voice soft and menacing.  “Unless you _want_ to starve to death.”  The third option hung in the air, almost unspoken – eat willingly, or be force-fed.

Varian peeled a strip off the charred hunk of meat and put it in his mouth.  It tasted like pork.  He gagged as he swallowed, revulsion curling at his gut and clawing at his throat.  He peeled another strip off, and then his stomach rebelled.  He pitched forward, stomach heaving as he vomited bile and undigested meat onto the ground.  His head ached fiercely, temples pounding in time with his heartbeat, banging like an orcish war-drum.

“ _What_ …” Varian rasped, voice rough from vomiting and dehydration, “do you… _want?_ ”  The effort it took to utter those four words left him feeling nauseous again and he gagged, heaving more bile onto the puddle between his hands.  He heard a noise like a Goblin shredder from Gul’dan and flinched, shoulder jarring unpleasantly.

“ _Everything_.”  The warlock’s lips twitched, in a way that made Varian think the orc was remembering a private joke.  He closed his eyes, silently fighting against the frustration and the nausea.  “What I want is simple, mongrel.”  His eyes gleamed red in the depths of his hood.  “I want you to _thank me_ for allowing you to eat.  And then I want you to apologize for rejecting my generosity.”

The growl bubbled up in Varian’s chest, from somewhere deep within his soul.  If he had been a wolf, his hackles would be raised and his ears pinned back, lips peeled back from his muzzle.  If he had been a wolf…but he _wasn’t_.  He had the spirit of a dead god, and even that was up for debate.  He was named for a wolf and nothing more.

Gul’dan made a noise of disappointment, and gestured to someone standing behind Varian.  “A few more days at the post should make him more amenable.  No water.”

Varian spat curses at the warlock as he was dragged away, lungs burning from the effort.

 

Varian sat on the balls of his feet, eyes closed and breathing as even as he could keep it.  The damnable collar around his neck dug into the soft flesh of his jaw, spines lining the inside cutting into his skin; he could _feel_ the blood dripping from the small gouges, even if he couldn’t raise his hands to feel it.  The chain had been pulled too tightly and too high out of his reach to allow him to readjust to ease the pressure on his throat, cutting off his already-limited air.  His arms had been wrenched behind him again, held in place with fel-tained spider silk.  As a method of torture and control, it was brutally effective.  The light-headedness he felt now was more a lack of air than hunger or dehydration. 

Three times now, warlocks had come by with buckets of water.  Instead of allowing him to drink, they had poured it, slowly, onto the ground in front of him.  To his lasting shame, a hot feeling curling in his gut, he had begged them for even a few drops of water.  The warlocks he had begged had dipped their fingers in the mud at his knees and smeared the mess across his lips, smiles malicious as he choked on the taste, stomach roiling in nausea but lacking anything to throw up again.  And still, he had followed their fingers as far as the leash and his bonds would allow, whining pathetically the entire time; even knowing he’d receive a swift punch or slap to the head hadn’t stopped him.

He coughed and shifted on the balls of his feet, hissing as a sharp rock poked through the toe of his left boot, where the shoe had begun to peel away from the sole.  At one point, his boots had been the best work of the finest cobbler in Stormwind City.  Despite being a testament to the woman’s skill, they had never been designed to withstand a demon-infested island for this long.  (His favorite champion swore by her boots – heavy leather and three inch soles made of blessed steel.  She was paranoid, he remembered with a fond smile, and for most of the right reasons.)  A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat:  Here he was, bemoaning the slow demise of his boots, when a power-mad warlock was holding him prisoner and trying to destroy Azeroth.

Of all the damn things, and he had to bemoan his _boots_.

The laugh spilled out of his mouth, tinged with hysteria and despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varian needs a hug. And a rescue.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan's a dick, but we already knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gore at the end of the chapter; nothing graphic.

Objectively, Varian had known some of the Crusaders had survived.  There had been the prisoners rescued during the assault on the Black City, during the Alliance and Horde’s combined march on the Tomb of Sargeras, and the ones who had marched with the combined armies in the Argent Crusade’s rear guard.  Most of the Crusaders they had encountered in the Black City had been held in cages or chained to altars, or worse.  Those poor bastards had not been so lucky as to be granted a swift death; the demons had taken them and broken them, turning them into puppets and shadows of their former selves – much like Gul’dan was trying to do to him, Varian assumed.  At the time, Varian had sworn that he would forever have nightmares about the poor bastard he had disemboweled.  Varian couldn’t even remember striking the blow, but the Crusader had stared at him, eyes unseeing, as he collapsed to the ground.  (And Varian would swear the Crusader had finally managed to say _thank you_ before he died, blood bubbling red on his lips.)

Still, _knowing_ some of the Crusaders had survived was different than _seeing_ the Crusaders who had survived.

Varian twisted in his bonds, trying to watch the Crusaders being herded towards the post he had been bound to; there were five of them – an elf, maybe, a tauren, and three who were vaguely human-shaped.  He gave up trying to see them when the collar began cutting a little too deeply into his throat.  Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could still see a faint golden glow; these weren’t the broken puppets the demons had turned against the joint forces of the Horde and Alliance.  These were _Crusaders_ , still defiant and radiant with the power of the Light.  The glow was dimmer than Varian remembered, or perhaps his memory of it was distorted by this dark place, but all of them held the power of the Light.  The demons prodding them forward hissed and snarled, and stayed at pike range. 

His son came to mind, then; the glow reminded Varian of Anduin.  His son had glowed like the heart of a dying star, almost too bright to look at, after the Divine Bell.  The priests summoned to Lion’s Watch had prayed over his son’s injuries, mending them and pushing his own natural connection with the Light to do the rest.  Prophet Velen had sat with Anduin, his own inner radiance complementing the young prince’s.  The prophet had said it was the Light touching Anduin directly and, for lack of better context, Varian had agreed.  Perhaps the inner radiance wasn’t so unique to Anduin; just another physical sign of the Light’s blessing.  Varian’s smile turned bitter and then faded as he looked away.  As in-tune with the Light as the Crusaders were, they were still prisoners.  Just like he was.

He tore his attention away from thoughts of the Crusaders and stared in the direction of the Tomb of Sargeras.  He had been moved out of the path of the portal, for which he was grateful.  The foul wind emanating from the portal had been ceaseless over the past few days, stripping flesh from the unwary.  The bars of his cage had protected him, marginally, but all the same, he was grateful to be bound to this post and out of its path.  Not that his suffering had lessened, of course, but…

_Small victories._

The Crusaders were shoved into cages arranged in a half-circle behind Varian’s post.  He could see the two on the outer edges of the half-circle out of the corner of his eye, and not much else. The cages had, thus far, been unoccupied, but he supposed he’d have company now.  The two prisoners he could see were a scrap of a boy – human, young, maybe the same age as Anduin – and an elf.  (Blood Knight, Varian thought, but with the Crusade.)

He sighed and closed his eyes as footsteps began crunching across the black ash and gravel behind him.  The tell-tale rustle-thump _thump_ of a staff hitting the ground told him it was Gul’dan, back to torment him.  He licked his lips instinctively, almost wishing he had even a few drops of water to soothe the burning in his throat. 

“ _It’s the High King!_ ”

The words were excited, high-pitched – from hysteria and fear – but…there was _hope_.  Varian’s gut clenched as the rustle-thump _thump_ of Gul’dan’s stride stopped next to him.  Whoever had uttered those words would face Gul’dan’s wrath soon.  A large hand came to rest on the side of his face and Varian shuddered, flinching, but he didn’t pull away.

“He’s alive!”

The whispered declaration passed along behind Varian, and he opened his eyes at last, staring straight ahead.  Gul’dan’s twisted body filled the corner of his vision, blocking the cage with the elf from sight.  On the other side, he could see the scrap of a Crusader pressing eagerly against the bars of his cage, face shining with _hope_.  Varian twisted a little, away from Gul’dan’s eerily silent form, to look closer at the boy Crusader.

He had white-blonde hair and freckles splashed across his face.  He was _smiling_ , teeth glinting in the soft gold light emanating from his skin.  For a bare moment, Varian could have sworn he was looking at Anduin, and –

“That thing’s a fucking _demon_ ,” a voice behind Varian grumbled.  The speaker sounded old, tired, and stretched thin.  “Those things are tricky, and the warlock favors it.  It’s a fucking demon.”  The hope Varian had almost been able to feel died instantly.  He couldn’t blame the speaker for thinking he was a demon.  One of the briefings he had received from an Alliance warlock on the way to the Broken Shore had cautioned against working alone, in case a demon – something called a Dread Infiltrator – managed to sneak into the camp to cause havoc.  (As he recalled, no one had slept after that lecture...)

“But Caradoc…”  The boy’s voice trailed off as Gul’dan’s hand tangled in Varian’s hair.  Varian flinched, but stayed where he was, jaw clenching so hard he could almost hear his teeth grinding against each other in protest.  His nostrils flared and he breathed deeply, trying to remember not to begin hyperventilating.

“I think,” Gul’dan said, voice low enough that Varian knew the words were meant only for his ears, “that your new friends will need a lesson in manners.”

Varian’s heart hammered wildly in his chest as the warlock began speaking in rapid demonic to his constant entourage of demons and eredar.  He swallowed reflexively, throat catching on the spikes lining the collar around his neck.  Oddly, though, the demons strode _past_ him, heading for…one of the cages.  He swallowed again, breathing starting to match his heartbeat.  They were going to kill one of the Crusaders, then.  He looked up at Gul’dan, expression pleading.

“P…. _please_ ,” he rasped, throat raw from dehydration.  “D-do-don’t….hurt…them…”  He doubted begging would work, but the demons had been – from what he had seen – going to grab the youngest of the Crusaders.  The one he had thought looked like Anduin.  (Would he see his son, if the demons ripped the Crusader apart, he wondered.)

Gul’dan’s smile turned fouler, if that was possible, and he turned his gaze to the demon.  Whatever he said sent ripples of foul laughter through his demonic entourage.  The demons who had gone to the cages returned, dragging the boy Crusader between them.

The boy _did_ look like Anduin, although his hair was far shorter; his face was narrower, although…  His smile had faded a little, and as Varian watched, the boy’s lower lip began to tremble.  Varian couldn’t blame him.  The demons had forced the boy to kneel, and that was a position Varian knew intimately – it had resulted in pain that seemed unending.

“Behave, mongrel.”  Gul’dan turned to look at the boy Crusader.  Varian shuddered as Gul’dan began petting his hair.  “What is your name, Crusader?”

The boy’s lower lip was still trembling when he spoke, voice quivering.  “E- Eadric C-c- Carson.”

Gul’dan lifted his hand from Varian’s hair, at _last_.  Varian did flinch when the warlock summoned a ball of green fire, chain rattling against the post he was bound to as he tried to move away from the heat and the stench of sulfur and brimstone.  He had the sudden, plummeting feeling that he knew _exactly_ what Gul’dan was going to do.  His gaze locked with Eadric Carson’s, and he wondered if the boy knew too…

“Hm.”  Gul’dan twisted his wrist, and –

Varian lurched against his bonds, a strangled yell escaping his lips as the ball of green fire hit the boy Crusader squarely in the center of his chest.  There was a brief moment of illumination so intense Varian could almost see his skeleton, and then –

Ash.  It drifted slowly to the ground, glowing faintly with a sickly greenish-yellow light that died as the ash hit the ground.  All that was left of the young Crusader, all that was left to mark his existence, was a pile of greasy, greyish ash; sifted through by the wind.

Varian’s throat felt raw, from causes other than dehydration, and his eyes burned.  He bit the inside of his mouth until the flesh parted under his teeth and he tasted copper.  Gul’dan’s hand returned to his hair, petting him like an obedient hound as the wind curled past the ashy remains of the boy Crusader, blowing the ash away bit by bit.  The old man who’d called him a demon seemed to have been energized by his junior’s death, because the sound of metal clanging against metal met Varian’s ears, followed by a variety of epithets – most for Gul’dan, but some directed at Varian.

The snarl built low in his chest, low and reverberating as it built.  It was the kind of snarl that had made Genn joke that he actually _was_ a wolf, masquerading as a human.   The warlock’s smile flickered, and his hand faltered.  That was all Varian needed – he _could_ rattle the warlock.  A sense of triumph burned in his chest, dimming a bit as black ash floated by his face.

Varian’s smile turned feral.  _I am a wolf_ , it said.  _I am a wolf, and you cannot break my will._

_I will kill you for this_ , the smile said.

\- o – o -

Gul’dan returned, bearing Varian’s bucket of water himself.  Varian turned his head away, eyes closed.  He had no desire to be tormented further.  Gul’dan somehow always made things worse just by existing in their same general area.  Varian flinched when a hand closed around his chin, forcing him to look up at the warlock.  The orc’s lips twisted in a sneer, lips pulling around yellowed tusks.

The conversation that had been happening behind Varian – the Crusaders had been talking about the weather, of all things; probably for lack of any better topic, since they had been captured during the retreat from the tomb.   All of their information was no doubt useless at this point, although Varian knew how even out-of-date information could be used to sink a campaign.  (That was why the gnomes had become so invaluable over the years; instant communication was nothing to turn your nose up at, and it was less prone to interference than magical means of communication.)

“ _He’s a traitor!_ ” someone hissed behind him, just loud enough to be heard.  Varian flinched at the insult, chain rattling against the post he was chained to.  The warlock grinned, no doubt having heard the insult, and lifted the bucket.

“Drink, mongrel,” his captor growled, thick fingers digging into Varian’s jaw until he gasped in pain.  The edge of the bucket was shoved into his mouth and tipped until he was forced to drink the befouled water or choke.  He gulped, slowly at first to not choke, and then greedily when it became clear the water wasn’t going to be snatched away or poured out on the ground this time.  His throat bobbed rapidly as he swallowed down mouthfuls of the rank water, some of it dribbling out the corners of his mouth and down his chin, where it soaked the scraggly beard on his cheeks and dripped to his chest.  He drank until the bucket was empty, belly stretched painfully tight by the amount of water he’d drunk.  His mouth wasn’t so dry, at least.

“Say tha-”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Varian growled.  He spat at the warlock’s feet, mildly pleased that he could do that now.  Gul’dan made a noise like a shredder in the back of his throat.  Varian raised his eyes to meet the warlock’s and glared.  The bucket of water had reinvigorated him, surprisingly.  There were four Crusaders behind him – and they could take care of themselves.  (The demons had been afraid to go near them.  Gul’dan had not.  The old man would probably try to fight Gul’dan, at least.  The Tauren…)

“Disobedient mongrel,” Gul’dan murmured, running his fingers through Varian’s hair in a parody of affection.  “Perhaps I should…reinforce your training.”  He shoved Varian’s head back until it knocked against the post.  Varian ground his teeth together, still glaring at Gul’dan’s back as the warlock left, vanishing out of sight.  What, he wondered, would his punishment be?

He shook his head as his ears began buzzing.  His head felt fuzzy when he went too long without eating, but this was a new sensation.  The Crusaders had begun whispering again, and for some reason, Varian felt miserable about being left out.  Of course, their leader had called him a traitor, so they were probably talking about him and –

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Varian startled at the question, chain rattling against the post as he jumped.  He twisted in his bonds to look for the speaker, wincing as his shoulder jolted uncomfortably, sending something else grinding in a way it shouldn’t.  He caught the elf Crusader out of the corner of his eye, just as the elf waved at him, smile merry.  He nodded and shuffled back into a more comfortable position for his shoulder.

“Is the weather always this-”

“Don’t talk to that _thing!_ ” the old Crusader somewhere behind him barked.  From his tone, Varian surmised he was someone used to having his orders followed _mmediately_ ; an officer, perhaps, a grand prize for the demons, if he could be broken.  Varian wondered how long he would last.

“Just making conversation,” the elf replied in a ragged, tired voice.  “Hey, Yakee – you think I can get some water if I kiss up to the High King?”  Yakee laughed in reply, low and deep.  Varian almost grinned when the older Crusader – not Yakee – began grumbling too quietly for him to hear.

“No,” Yakee – a Tauren, perhaps – finally said.

“Aww.”

Varian didn’t bother to fight the grin spreading across his face as he imagined the elf’s pouting expression.  Although something about the elf’s tone and expression niggled at the back of his mind.  Something about him was…familiar.  Somehow.

“Ask…the demons,” Varian rasped, corners of his mouth twitching.  “Maybe…you can…piss Gul’dan off…too.”  The elf and the tauren both laughed until they started coughing, no doubt choking on the ash and dust.

“I said _be silent!_ ” the older Crusader roared.  Metal clanged against metal, and Varian wondered if the man had thrown himself against the bars.  Not a good idea – the cages were too solidly built for even a full-grown, well-rested warrior to take apart from the inside.  Varian had learned the hard way, his first few days on the island.  The fading bruises on his chest had been a good object lesson, at least.

“Caradoc,” the elf said tiredly, “some of us just want to have a nice chat with demons in _peace_.  It’s not _my_ fault you’re such a-”

“ _Children_.”  Yakee’s tone brooked no dissension and Caradoc and the elf stopped speaking.  The conversation did not resume, and Varian almost missed the low murmurs of conversation.  He shuffled awkwardly on the balls of his feet, trying to find a more comfortable position against the post.  He drifted off, eventually, and dreamed of food.

He jerked awake as the chain holding his collar to the post released suddenly and slumped forward, coughing, as his shoulders were allowed to relax and his chest expanded normally for the first time in days.  The High King looked up, eyes watering as he coughed and wheezed.  Demons were shoving something into position in the field a few yards from where he was crouched and in front of him… _Of course it would have to be Gul’dan._

“Bring the mongrel.”

Varian struggled against the demons as he was dragged forward, feet skidding against the ash-strewn ground, struggling for purchase to throw himself back.  The demons lifted him up and slammed him chest-down against the stone table they had dragged into place.  Varian’s vision went white as something in his chest cracked; the demons took the opportunity to chain him in place, arms outstretched and ankles chained to the base of the table.

“Disobedient mongrels,” Gul’dan said, “are punished.”  He stepped back, out of Varian’s sight.  “Begin.”

Varian twisted wildly in his bonds, looking for whichever demon was going to torture him and –

_Pain_.

White-hot pain seared across his back, a stripe of fire quickly gone.  And again.  And again.  And again.

Varian let the pain wash over him until his vision turned white and the pain faded.

 

The whipping stopped, eventually.  Varian shivered as the rags of his shirt were stripped from his body and retched as the sweat- and blood-stained rags were shoved into his mouth, effectively gagging him.  He trembled as the demons tossed him to the ground, cringing away as they leered down at him.  His back was on fire, burning from the pain of the whipping; it felt like they’d rubbed salt in the wounds while he’d drifted in and out of consciousness.  Gul’dan was a malignant bastard who seemed to enjoy causing pain for pain’s sake; Varian couldn’t say he was _surprised_ at the revelation, but the agony of reality was almost indescribable.  He was fairly certain that, if he could see his back, it would look like raw meat – sausage came to mind, for a brief, gruesome second.  His stomach clenched painfully at the idea and he curled up, groaning in pain around the makeshift gag.

The Crusaders were silent, not even a whisper of condemnation or comfort spilling from their lips.  Varian almost wished they’d speak again – false cheerfulness about the weather, commentary on the island, _anything_ but the awful silence they had fallen into while he had been whipped.  He curled up where the demons had tossed him, shuddering in pain as the torn skin on his back pulled.

“… _hey_.”

Varian shifted a fraction, trying to indicate he was listening.

“Hey! You!”  The elven Crusader was speaking.  “Try to crawl over here so I can reach your back.”

“Thaedrin,” the old Crusader said, tone harsh and chastising.  “Leave that _thing_ where it is.  Don’t waste your energy on it.”  It might have been Varian’s imagination, but he thought the man sounded…resigned.

“…Can you move?”  Thaedrin – the elf Crusader – asked again, hesitant, but still ignoring his superior.  Varian pushed himself towards the noise, grinding his teeth against the filthy rags in his mouth as his vision flashed white.  “That’s it,” Thaedrin encouraged.  Varian could almost imagine the smile on the elf’s face.  “Turn your back to me, alright?”  Varian flopped awkwardly onto his side, back to the cage.  There was a sound of tearing cloth and someone spitting several times, and then a damp rag – a scrap of Thaedrin’s shirt, he thought – pressed against his back.  “I think I can heal those if I get some of the dirt off.”

“Thaedrin! Don’t waste your energy on that... _thing_.”

The rag paused on Varian’s back and he twitched as a burning sensation began spreading.  He whined softly and twitched as the rag began moving again.

“Fuck off, Caradoc; he needs help.  I don’t give a _fuck_ if he’s a demon’s pawn.  I’m a healer and it’s my _job_.”  Something warm tingled across Varian’s back and he sighed, tension bleeding out of his body as the gaping slashes in his skin began to mend – poorly, but mended all the same.  “I’m…I’m not giving up.  I’m not _you_.”

Varian decided it was best to pretend he’d fallen asleep under the healing, and kept his eyes closed as the argument between Thaedrin and Caradoc reignited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did *not* want to be written, but it finally cooperated for Christmas. :)


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People die. Horribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Gore, semi-graphic death, insects, and being buried alive (sort of)

For whatever unfathomable reason, the demons let him remain curled up near Thaedrin’s cage.  Varian didn’t question their decision too much, and was rather pathetically _grateful_ they had left him there.  The elf was a decent healer, as he had claimed, and quite willing to talk.  Varian understood a third of what the Crusader was saying through the haze of pain, but appreciated the effort nonetheless.  Thaedrin chattered about _everything_ , although his favorite topic seemed to be anything that would incite Caradoc’s ire.

The oldest of the Crusaders was rather sour, and his mood had not improved.  According to Thaedrin – who was, in fact, a distant cousin of _that_ particular maniac, apparently – his sourness was because his young lover (or protégé, the bet had never been settled) was dead.  (Varian’s throat tightened at the thought of the boy Crusader, smiling too widely and looking too much like his son, bursting into flames at a flick of Gul’dan’s wrist.)  Thaedrin’s too-loud laugh had started _another_ shouting match about propriety, and Varian wondered if the argument was an old one – it seemed quite well rehearsed, and even though it might have been a trick of the weak lighting, he swore Caradoc’s lips had twitched.  Yakee, the tauren paladin, told them both to be silent or _else_.  She’d gestured at the dwarf paladin, eyebrows twitching down in a scowl.  The dwarf hadn’t spoken since they had been forced to the cages; Thaedrin had mumbled an apology and had kept his words quiet after.  (Although Yakee had the kind of voice Varian associated with mothers who had a surefire way of dealing with too many children, Varian felt the tauren’s experience was from dealing with Crusaders who liked to bicker.)

Even knowing that Caradoc had been involved with Eadric, on some level, Varian couldn’t dredge up the energy to hate him.  He could almost understand the man’s vitriol, actually:  He was, after a fashion, responsible for Eadric’s death.  Gul’dan was a bastard like that.

The old Crusader seemed determined to hate him, and Varian didn’t have the energy to make him stop.

“What you need to watch out for,” Thaedrin continued, breaking through the dark, melancholic haze clouding Varian’s thoughts, “is _Balnazzar._ ”  He stopped combing his fingers through Varian’s hair.  “Are you even listening to me?”

Varian shrugged half-heartedly.  Thaedrin laughed softly.

“I was _saying_ ,” he said quietly, almost whispering, “that I’ve figured out the patrols.  The only demon we need to watch out for is _Balnazzar_.  That’s the one who’s in charge of breaking or killing the paladins.  Seems that one has…uh…a particular _affection_ for my kind.”  Varian could imagine the fleeting, broken smile on the Crusader’s face.  “You can still run, yes?”

Varian nodded, hesitantly.  A little spark of hope ignited in his chest at the prospect of escaping.  Thaedrin’s fingers tightened against his scalp minutely, then relaxed.

“Good.”

 

At false dawn the next day, Thaedrin shook Varian awake.  Varian grunted and stared blearily up at the elf, who pointed urgently at the lock on his cage.  Varian nodded and pushed himself up with his good arm, wincing as the joints creaked.  He was too old for this… He could also worry about that _after_ he’d escaped.  The lock opened easily under his touch – perhaps the damn things were enchanted so they could only be opened from the outside…  Thaedrin began swinging his arms wide as soon as he stepped out of the cage, restoring his range of motion.  Varian limped away, holding himself upright along the line of cages as he opened the locks on each.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Thaedrin hissed, shooting wary, urgent looks at the ridge.  There were demons patrolling along the edge, and any second, Varian knew, they could look down and see prisoners in the midst of an escape attempt.  Varian popped the lock on Caradoc’s cage and shook the old man awake.

“The right thing,” Varian replied, voice gravelly with sleep.  “Wake up!” he hissed urgently, shaking Caradoc.  The old man stared up at him, blinking owlishly.  Varian stepped back from the door.  “Good luck, old man.”

It was up to Caradoc, then.  Varian could leave with a clean conscience.  He limped back to Thaedrin, who dragged his bad arm over his own shoulder.

“You’re an idiot,” Thaedrin hissed, although his smile had returned.  “I’ll buy you a drink… Actually, _you’re_ buying our drinks when we get out of this shithole.”

Varian laughed weakly.  “I’ll let you…have the pick of my wine cellar,” he promised.  Thaedrin muffled a laugh with the back of his hand.  The idea of letting the elf ransack the Keep’s wine cellar was oddly invigorating, and Varian fancied he could almost taste the salt air of the ocean.  There was enough debris on the shore to use as a raft, according to Thaedrin’s half-realized escape plan.  (And even a half-realized plan was better than nothing; Varian had no desire to die at Gul’dan’s hands on this miserable, fel-blighted stretch of rock.)

“I’ll hold you to it,” Thaedrin gasped as they limped down the crest of one ridge.  “I’m going to ta-” His words trailed off and Varian looked up to see what had cut off the Crusader’s line of thought.  “Oh no.”

Varian could only agree with the sentiment, coupled with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  The beach was so _close_ , but the field of demons between them and the water was…  There was no way they were going to get past that.  Beside him, Varian could feel the elf start to tremble.  It wasn’t _fair_ , they were… Damn.  It…

“Come on,” Varian rasped.  “We’ll find a different route.”  He turned, half-dragging his companion along the ridge.  There _had_ to be a gap in the field of demons somewhere.  His luck might not be as good as Champion Danville’s, but damn it, there was _always_ a way out!

“ _Nooooooo_ ,” Thaedrin moaned, sliding out from under Varian’s arm.  Varian dropped with him, stomach plummeting to the vicinity of his boots.  A massive Natherizm was striding towards them, bat-like wings flexing menacingly as it moved.  Gul’dan shuffled along at the Nathrezim’s side, lips twisted into a horrible, pleased smile.  Trailing along behind the warlock and the Nathrezim were broken-eyed Crusaders, the usual assortment of junior warlocks, and felhounds.  Varian shuddered; next to him, Thaedrin began rocking and sobbing, whispering prayers in Thalassian under his breath.

“Such a _disobedient_ mongrel,” Gul’dan purred, staring down at Varian and the Crusader.  “Balnazzar,” he added, addressing the Nathrezim, “you seem to be mistaken about how punishments will affect my mongrel.”

The Nathrezim shrugged, wings flexing and settling back into place, folded neatly.  “The little king is not one of my pets,” the demon replied, lips twitching in an amused smile.  “Perhaps its spirit will not be broken by simple beatings.”  The demon switched its attention to Thaedrin.  “That one is broken, now.”  The Nathrezim gestured at the broken Crusaders behind it.  “Kill the elf.  Bring me its head.”

Thaedrin screamed and began struggling as his fellows descended on him.  Varian realized, dully, that none of the broken Crusaders had weapons.  Something heavy landed on the back of his neck, and he realized, through the haze of numb resignation, that the Nathrezim – Balnazzar – had grabbed his hair so he was forced to watch the Crusaders tear at Thaedrin’s body.

Tears spilled out of Varian’s eyes, blinding him.

“Perhaps a different method of punishment is needed,” the Nathrezim said over his head.  “Let me have your mongrel.  It will be more…compliant…”

Gul’dan shook his head, and Varian felt pathetically grateful to the warlock in that instant.  He cringed, stomach churning as Thaedrin let out a warbling scream, accompanied by a particularly wet squelching sound.

“The mongrel simply needs a… _reminder_ of his place.”  Gul’dan turned to his own attendants and barked orders in whatever language the demons and Eredar spoke.  Two warlocks stepped forward, one of the bearing a heavy chain in her hands.  “Take my mongrel back to the post, and chain him there.  I will… _deal_ with him shortly.”

Varian’s only consolation as he was dragged away was that Thaedrin had passed out – or died.  Finally.

 

The cages were empty, which Varian took as small consolation as he was chained back in place.  He was forced to stand, this time, on the balls of his feet.  Apparently, the demons didn’t trust him to not try to escape again.  His hands had been bound in front of his body, one hand curled into a fist and the other curled around it.  Seeming to realize the danger, the warlocks had further bound his wrists to his waist, preventing him from giving them a double-handed strike to the chin or face.

Gul’dan shuffled to the small field as the last rays of sunlight disappeared from the island.  Varian’s feet were cramped and sore from trying to support his weight and his throat felt raw from where the spiked collar had dug into his throat.  His wrists were rubbed raw under the bindings, adding to his discomfort as he tried to keep his breathing even and under control.  His chest ached where he had been slammed into the stone table, and his back felt damp, as though the lashes Thaedrin had healed less than a day ago had split open again.

The warlock put the head of his staff under Varian’s chin, tilting the High King’s head up.  Varian glared and remained silent.  Somewhere in his chest, the wolf he had been named for growled.  The wolf wanted out, to rend their enemies to pieces and rain destruction down on this pathetic rock.

“I seem to have been far too lenient,” Gul’dan said, stepping back and letting Varian’s head drop.  “Tomorrow, I think your training will be….enforced.”  He smiled, lips curling around his tusks.  “Sleep well, mongrel.”

Varian felt the growl bubbling up in his chest.  Had anyone seen his eyes, they would have seen the faint gold gleam illuminating them as he peeled his lips back from his teeth.  When he growled, the noise was a mountain coming down.

Only once before had the Legion heard that growl, and they _remembered_.

Some part of Varian remembered the primal thrill of the hunt, of the satisfaction of hunting prey as crafty as he was.  And, for one perfect moment, he felt the sheer _weight_ of a god’s rage.

Gul’dan’s staff cracked across his temple, and the High King knew no more.

\- o – o -

Varian’s only consolation was that the rest of the Crusaders seemed to have escaped.

He reminded himself of that, chanting it over and over in his mind.  _They escaped. They escaped. They escaped, and they’ll tell the Champion, and she’ll storm the island._   He kept repeating the thought because anything else…  The little ember of hope in his chest was still burning.  Four members of the Argent Crusade had escaped.  That meant four chances of a rescue party.  He had _hope_ , and that was enough.

It _had_ to be enough.

He shuddered as _something_ crawled over his face, too many legs skittering too near his mouth.  He clamped his lips shut, panting heavily through his nose as the legs skittered past.  The thing skittered away, tiny legs crawling along his scalp and down the side of his face and over his ruined shoulder, leaving Light knew what in its wake.  It took everything he had left to not sob aloud.

_They escaped, they escaped, they escaped_.

Gul’dan’s fury over discovering the rest of the Crusaders had escaped had been terrible; Balnazzar’s fury had been _volcanic_.  The Nathrezim had set felhounds on Varian.  His shoulder, nearly healed from the damage it had borne, had shattered again as a set of jaws clamped shut around the joint.  He’d never lift a sword again, and even a quill would be a chore.  (On the other hand, he’d have the perfect excuse for never doing paperwork again…)

The thing skittered back over his face, tiny feet catching in the ragged beard growing on his chin, and a sob left Varian’s mouth before he could stop it.

When the demonic hounds had finally been called off, warlocks had bound his injuries.  Varian supposed it was only so he wouldn’t bleed to death before Gul’dan was finished torturing him.  He’d been bound, blindfolded, and tossed into a pit in the ground.  His ruined shoulder ached dully, the pain pounding in time with his heartbeat.  His ankles had been bound as well, and a short rope connected his wrists to his ankles.  He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to – and that was the beauty of Gul’dan’s torture.

The warlock’s laugh echoed somewhere above his prison and Varian cringed at the noise.  The hole amplified every noise, made worse by the blindfold and the lack of external stimulation.  He shuddered again, teeth grinding together in panic as the skittering _thing_ crawled across his chest.  When he felt the legs skitter along his collarbone, he ground his teeth together until his jaw creaked painfully.  He almost wished he could see what was crawling on him, just so he could _kill it_.

The muffled conversation and laughter somewhere above him died away eventually, until the only noise was the distant screech of patrolling felbats.  The noise was awful, but it was something else to focus on.  He winced as his legs began to cramp; the cramps would become painful soon, and join the pain in his back and shoulders soon enough, dulling his mind further.

The thing skittered onto his neck, little legs playing over his throat, questing for _something_.  What felt like _dozens_ of the legs paused movement on his mouth, probing gently at his lips.  Varian’s breath quickened as the prodding became insistent, panting harshly through his nose, eyes burning.  He was terrified of a damn _insect_ , but he couldn’t see it and it was crawling on him and—

He _screamed_.

A heartbeat after the skittering _thing_ attempted to enter his mouth, large hands hauled him roughly out, ripping the thing away from him.  Varian thrashed against the hands holding him, still screaming.  His throat felt raw, but he couldn’t _stop_ , even as thoughts began crawling around his mind.

_They came back, they came back, they came back, they ca-_

Gul’dan leered down at him.  Varian blinked back tears as harsh light assaulted his vision.  The strip of black cloth he had been blindfolded with dangled from the warlock’s gnarled hand, and Varian fixated on it, eyes wide and pupils blown, breath coming in harsh pants.  He shuddered and looked away, eyes rolling in terror.  The skittering _thing_ was curled around a demon’s arm on the other side of the pit, half-raised off the demon’s skin, little feelers and legs waving idly.  His breath caught in his throat and he felt another scream bubbling up in his throat.

“Put the mongrel back in the hole,” Gul’dan commanded, “and put that thing back in with him.”  Varian thrashed weakly as the demon that had pulled him out picked him back up.  He didn’t want to go back into the hole, blindfolded or not; not with that _thing_ in there, and –

“Nn-n-n,” he whined, throat constricted.  He shook his head wildly, thrashing desperately as he was lowered back into the hole.  “ _NO!_ ”  The desperate shriek tore out of his mouth, pitched high and hysterical.  “ _Please! Please, not there!  Not… Please…_ ”  He trailed off with a broken sob, trembling in terror at the thought of being left in that pit with no way to fight that _thing_.  “ _Please_.”

Gul’dan smiled and Varian felt an icy chill settle in his gut as the demon set him on the ground.  Gul’dan had _won_.  He’d let the warlock _win_.  He’d _begged_ , like a _dog_.

“Unbind him,” the warlock instructed.  Varian hissed as his limbs were freed from the ropes binding them behind his body.  He curled up on the greasy black ash, shuddering as feeling returned with a prickling, pins-and-needles sensation and an icy chill that had nothing to do with the terror curling through his gut.  “Crawl over here,” Gul’dan said, voice soft and dangerous, “and say _thank you_.”

Varian flopped awkwardly onto his side and got his hands and knees under his body.  The crawl was slow and painful, but he managed it, tears of pain spilling from his eyes as he moved.  He stopped in front of Gul’dan’s throne, head bowed and arms shaking from the strain of holding his weight up.

“Say _thank you, master_ ,” Gul’dan instructed, voice dangerously calm.

Varian sobbed, words sticking in his throat.  He lowered himself carefully until he was prostrated before the warlock, praying to any benevolent god that was still listening that the warlock would accept it in lieu of words.  The warlock’s staff tapped gently against his bruised cheek.  Apparently not.  Varian crawled forward, feet dragging in the black ash, and pressed his forehead to the warlock’s feet.

“I said-” Gul’dan began, and stopped as Varian clumsily, cautiously, began licking the ash from the warlock’s feet.  Varian didn’t think he could form words.  If he tried to speak, he’d vomit, and not from the taste of the ash and whatever Gul’dan had walked through.  “Ah.”  The warlock sounded pleased, and Varian hiccupped, still licking the warlock’s feet.  “Good mongrel.”

He flinched when the warlock’s hand came to rest on his hair.  The warlock pulled him up by the ragged remains of his ponytail, far gentler than he had been before.  Varian flinched, but let the warlock manhandle him into position, cheek resting on the warlock’s thigh.  His fingers tightened in the ragged remains of his trousers, knuckles white even through the grime.

“Good mongrels,” Gul’dan said softly, “are rewarded.”  His thick, callused fingers caressed Varian’s cheek, scraping through the ragged beard.  A few days ago, Varian would have snapped his teeth at the warlock’s hand just to prove to himself he wasn’t broken.  “My good pet,” the warlock continued, “Should be rewarded.”  The orc smiled, lips curling around his tusks.  “A bath, and something to eat, I think.”

Varian’s stomach rumbled as he was slung over a demon’s shoulder and carried away.

It felt like defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Varian's not having a good time...


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, I return with an update!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Non-graphic torture, mentions of forced cannibalism

Varian ran his hands over the material of his new trousers, eyes fixed on the ground.  The collar around his throat dug into the soft skin on the back of his neck, pulled down by the weight of the chain fixed to the loop dangling at the hollow in his throat.  The chain was, for the moment, draped along the ground, not held by anyone.  His hands twitched at the thought of picking up the chain and running.  He forced himself to relax, horrible memories of Thaedrin’s screams erupting in his mind – a reminder of the consequences of trying to escape Gul’dan.  He shuddered and clenched his hands against his thighs, chest tight with anxiety and fear.

Gul’dan gave a wheezing cough, drawing Varian from his thoughts.  His eyes, dark with worry, flicked up to the warlock’s face.  The orc shifted on his seat and continued pouring over the tome he was reading.  Varian’s gaze dropped back to the ground.  The warlock would let him know when his attention was required.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, the wolf growled.  Varian pushed back at the wolf, not wanting to give into the madness.  He focused on the bath, trying to recall just how _nice_ it had been to be clean – _properly_ clean – for the first time in weeks.  Bathing had shoved the wolf back before, reminded him that _he_ was in control, not the beast, and-  Gul’dan’s hand dropped to his head, thick fingers carding through his hair.  Varian shuddered.

“One of your warlocks is competing with mine,” Gul’dan said, voice conversational.  “It seems one of your wolves has decided to join the winning side.”  The warlock grinned in the corner of Varian’s eye, red eyes gleaming in delight.  “Your people aren’t as stupid as I thought.”

Varian shuddered under the warlock’s hand, a sick feeling churning in his gut.  One of his people had changed allegiances, then.  He thought of Sylvanas’ apparent betrayal, and wondered if the worgen – if even _Genn_ – would join the Legion, just for a chance to exact revenge upon the Banshee Queen.  He prayed to the Light, if the Light was even still listening to this accursed rock, that only _one_ had turned.  Gul’dan patted his head almost affectionately before he left the hut, demonic tome tucked under one arm.

Varian drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them, hands tangled in his hair. He bit back a sob as the horrible weight of realization settled over him.  They really _were_ losing.

He fell asleep, face buried in his knees and tears drying on his cheeks.

 

 _Tiffin looked_ radiant _.  Varian couldn’t stop the smile spreading over his face as he flopped down on the mattress next to her, propping himself up on one arm.  She kept reading her book, ignoring him.  Varian was almost certain his smile was love-struck as he watched her read.  She was always so beautiful…_

_“Tif.”  She didn’t look up and Varian’s smile started to fade.  “Tif… Tiffin, would you look at me?”_

_Varian rolled onto his knees, sorrow burning in his chest.  This…  “Tiffin, look at me!”  The demand was frantic, a desperate plea for his wife to stop reading and_ see him _.  She looked up, finally; her eyes were rimmed in red.  Varian’s sense of sorrow grew greater._

 _“Tif,_ please _…”_

 _Out of the corner of his eye, he could see red creeping into the room_ and wasn’t that odd, and _–_

 

Varian jerked out of sleep, a cry of terror dying on his lips.  He stared blearily at the entrance to the hut as Gul’dan ducked through the doorway, smiling broadly.  The warlock seemed…inordinately pleased.  Varian shrank back, terror from his nightmare still coursing through him, as the warlock drew level.  He reached up to cover his damaged shoulder on instinct, cringing as Gul’dan’s smile grew wider still.

“Your champion,” Gul’dan said, voice low and tinged with glee, “is finally _dead_.”

\- o – o -

Gul’dan had pulled most of his demons back from the beachhead, leaving it devoid of the living.  No doubt it was a measure to keep them from tearing the champion’s body apart before he could gloat properly.  There were enough corpses littering the beach that Varian almost doubted the warlock’s ability to _find_ Champion Danville’s body.  The largest of the corpses was a pitlord, hacked nearly in two.  (His champion’s handiwork, Varian thought.)  There were more than a few vrykul lying on the blood- and ichor-stained sands, and Varian wondered at that.  (But they _were_ vrykul:  Any excuse for a good fight.)  Gul’dan made a noise in the back of his throat and Varian startled backwards, hissing as the spiked collar dug into his neck as it pulled taught against the chain leash.

“That one will take a week to bring back,” the warlock grumbled, aiming a kick at a Mo’arg brute.  The demon’s head lay several yards away, mouth gaping open, ichor and gore dripping from the severed neck.  That was _definitely_ his champion’s work.  She had made the demons pay in blood and bodies, at least.

He trailed after the warlock, one hand clasped around the chain leash in an attempt to keep it slack as he struggled to match the warlock’s pace.  For a cripple, the warlock moved quickly.  The combination of an Alliance warlock joining the Legion and the death of an Alliance champion – _the_ champion – had put the warlock in a jovial mood.  Fear settled in Varian’s stomach like a boulder, building with each passing second.  His throat grew tight as they drew level with the remains of the pitlord’s chest and arms.  He had no desire to see his champion’s shattered body lying under that…that _thing_.  Gul’dan would…  No doubt he would take her corpse and mount it on a pike on the beach – a warning to other would-be heroes, or simply as a trophy for the Legion.

“ _Where is it?!_ ”

Varian started at Gul’dan’s angry bellow.  The warlock dropped the chain and whirled on his demons, limping towards them.  He was beyond furious now, and Varian felt rooted to the spot, unable to summon the will to flee before the warlock’s rage.

“ _Where is that body?!_ ”  The warlock turned back to face him, face twisted in rage and near-incandescent fury.  Varian felt the beginnings of the grin slide off his face.  “You…”  The warlock’s good mood vanished in a tidal wave of rage, and Varian had a bare second before Gul’dan lifted his staff high and -

 

Varian moaned in pain, curling up on his side.  His face felt tender along one side, and his injured arm hung at an awkward angle to his body.  The warlock had beaten him unconscious, and…

Had tossed him in a pit?

The former High King pushed himself up awkwardly, unable to bite back soft cries of pain as his bruised, battered body protested the movement.  He leaned back against the collapsed pillar he had been chained to, surveying the dank cavern through a haze of pain.  There was a pool of water in the center of the cavern, fed by water dripping down from a crack in the cavern’s ceiling.  Varian licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was.  His last drink of water had been at daybreak…several days ago, perhaps?  (How long had he been unconscious?)

As his ability to focus returned, he saw a pack, stamped with the Horde crest, situated by the edge of the pool.  His stomach growled and he pressed a hand to his belly, willing the noise to stop.  Gul’dan had fed him scraps, by hand – never enough to sate the hunger growling in Varian’s belly, but just enough to keep him from fainting out of hunger.  There wouldn’t be food in that bag.  But he was so _hungry…_

Varian crawled towards the bag, injured arm folded against his body as best he could manage.  The chain jerked taut, leaving the bag _yards_ out of reach.  Varian bit back a noise of frustration.  He could reach the damn bag.  Somehow.  If he could reach the bag, he could reach the pond and lap the water up like a dog.

He stretched awkwardly, trying to snag one of the straps with his fingertips so he could drag it closer.  The spikes lining his collar dug into his neck and warm blood trickled down the line of his throat.  He gave up and crawled back towards the pillar until the tension left the chain and the collar stopped digging into his throat.  He curled up on his side, facing away from the pack as his stomach growled loudly.

He’d just get the damn thing later, then.

 

“Are you refusing your master’s generosity?”

Varian groaned behind the gag, eyes rolling in pain.  The same question, for the last hour, ever since the demon had come into the cavern.  The demon’s claws scraped over his injured shoulder, sending a new wave of heat down his side.  Whatever infection the paladin had been able to burn away had returned, setting his shoulder aflame.  The Nathrezim standing over his curled form chuckled.  Varian cringed away, straining against his bonds.

“Your master provides you with food and water,” the Nathrezim said, trailing a claw down Varian’s chest.  Varian panted, sides heaving in terror.  “Are you refusing your master’s generosity?”  Varian could see the damnable pack out of the corner of his eye, almost as far away as it had been when he’d first tried to reach it.  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.  “Are you refusing your master’s generosity?”

Varian let out a warbling cry of pain as the demon’s claws punctured his damaged shoulder.

“ _Are you refusing your master’s generosity?_ ”

He passed out.

 

“Are you refusing your master’s generosity?”

Varian let out a muffled noise of distress, fingers flexing uselessly.  His head felt…  He groaned in pain, slumping in his bonds.  The Nathrezim stroked the side of his face, almost gentle but for the scraping of long, black claws along his bruised cheek.  He kept his gaze downcast and shook his head again.  “Your master gives you food and water.  Are you refusing your master’s generosity?”  Sharp claws dug into his chin as the Nathrezim dragged his head around, forcing him to look at the demon.  Varian’s nostrils flared as he panted, breath coming in ragged wheezes as his chest heaved.

“That’s enough, Balnazzar.”

Gul’dan limped into Varian’s line of sight, leaning heavily on his staff.  He looked singed and annoyed, but he had yet to lift his staff to strike at anyone.  Varian swallowed, teeth grinding against the gag between his teeth.  He swallowed as the warlock ran a hand down his side – a gesture that would have been comforting, had it been anyone else.

“Your Crusader friends are still… _missing_ ,” Gul’dan told him, voice low and raspy.  The warlock’s smile was rather unpleasant, and the emphasis he’d put on _missing_ made Varian’s stomach churn unpleasantly in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.  “And when they return, mongrel,” the warlock continued, hand moving to Varian’s hair, “I will feed you their hearts.”  The orc’s smile grew wide, and then he spat on Varian.  Varian flinched as warm saliva slide down his face.

Gul’dan turned away and spoke to Balnazzar – the Nathrezim – in Demonic.  Varian yelped into the gag as the chains around his wrists and arms heated until they burned his skin.  By the time the burning had stopped, the warlock had left the cavern, leaving Varian alone with the Nathrezim again.  The demon laughed, stroking its claws along Varian’s arms.

“Now, then, mongrel,” the Nathrezim said, voice soft.  “Time to reinforce your training.”

Varian screamed until his throat bled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is going to be fun. ~~Not for Varian, though.~~


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan's won, Varian thinks, and he can't bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Gore, forced cannibalism.

Varian huddled in a corner, panting and whining softly under his breath.  He shook his head in an attempt to rid the buzzing noise from his ears, and cringed as someone laughed.  He pressed himself further into his corner, hugging his knees to his chest and eyes shut tightly against whatever had come to torment him this time.  (Balnazzar, another Nathrezim, Lord Jaraxxus – still angry about the Argent Coliseum and Wilfred Wizzlebang, years later – just a demon…)  He ground his teeth together, breath catching in his throat as his shoulder knocked against the wall of the shallow depression he’d curled up in.

A clawed hand came to rest in his hair and the former High King yelped, trying to duck away from whatever had decided to torment him – under orders from Gul’dan or not.  The shrill laugh that echoed in his ear was an imp’s – a warlock had come to torment him, then, not a demon.  All the warlocks had imp familiars, scores of the horrific little creatures attending them as they went about their business on the island.  Sometimes the uncontrolled imps came to the cave to torment him – throwing rocks and bits of debris, crawling over his body and picking at his skin or peeling parts of him off…  He started rocking and keening softly, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, eyes still closed.  The imp’s shrill laugh sounded further away now, torn away by something else.

He shuddered in relief but kept rocking.  The repetitive motion was soothing, when nothing else was on this accursed rock.  (Gul’dan’s hand in his hair, petting him affectionately, except he didn’t want to think about that, _ever_ , and…)  It made Gul’dan laugh and call him a frightened little boy, but he hadn’t been punished for trying to self-soothe his terrors away.  Yet.  His jaw ached as he ground his teeth together, and even the rocking motion failed to be soothing enough to ease the tension away.  The demons stayed longer when he screamed.

He whimpered and pressed his body further into the depression, as though he could somehow disappear into the dirt through sheer force of will, when a hand – not a demon or a junior warlock with a horde of imps – landed heavily on his injured shoulder.  Cold blossomed out from the touch, soothing the burn of infection.  The hand moved to his neck, grabbing for the links of the chain dangling from the cruel, spiked collar bound around his throat.

“Come, mongrel.”

Gul’dan, then.  Varian opened his eyes, staring blearily up at his master.  The warlock jerked the chain impatiently, drawing a low, pained whimper from Varian.  He crawled forward on his knees until he was out of the little depression, head dropping until his chin rested on his collarbone.  The warlock jerked the chain upwards, forcing him to his feet, and led him from the cavern, shuffling at a pace faster than Varian could manage, weak from hunger and thirst as he was.  (How long had it been since he had eaten, or had a drink of water?  Balnazzar had dangled both in front of his face, taunting him with them, but…) Varian shuffled along, trying to keep pace; he knew better than to beg his master for a reprieve.  Better to keep moving, than to beg and be punished.  If he complied, if he didn’t complain, his master would treat him kindly…

He stumbled as the warlock led him up an incline.  Varian could see the wreckage of Sylvanas’ personal airship – _Orgrim’s Hammer_ – in the distance, still burning despite it being weeks later.  Gul’dan had delighted in tormenting him with stories of how the Horde had left them – left _him_ – to their fates.  How his _own people_ had been duped into betraying him.  The warlock had meant to torture him with guilt, but dull terror and resignation had settled over him instead.  If demons could infiltrate SI:7... If so many demons could be mustered…

What hope was there for Azeroth?

Varian’s breath caught in his chest as they crested the rise.  Gul’dan stood at the top of the rise, leaning on his gnarled staff.  There was a pit below the rise, with Argent Crusaders – maybe a dozen, Varian thought as he counted heads – shackled to short posts.  Varian knelt as Gul’dan pressed gently on his shoulder, shivering in terror as the warlock’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck as though he were a favored dog.

“Well, mongrel?”

Varian swallowed, throat as dry as his mouth.  “…There are Crusaders?” he ventured softly, voice cracking.  Gul’dan shook him by the collar, but his smile had yet to turn to the cruel glee that preceded a beating.

“Do you want to free one of them?”  Gul’dan’s voice was low and silky, but no less menacing for it.  Varian blinked at the warlock.  He could have _sworn_ his master had just offered to free a Crusader – a _sworn enemy of the Legion_.  He licked his lips, tongue dragging over cracked skin and scabs, stalling for time.  It became clear that, yes, his master _had_ offered to free a Crusader.  Varian swallowed, throat constricting and eyes burning.  His master had offered him things before – ‘treats’, the warlock had called them.  All he had to do was pay whatever price the warlock wanted. 

A sword thumped into the dirt in front of him, followed by the end of the leash.  Gul’dan stepped back as Varian stared at the weapon, palms itching for the feel of the pommel.  …But Gul’dan wouldn’t give him a weapon. Something was wrong…

_Do you want to free one of them?_

Ah.  So that was the warlock’s game, then, Varian realized with a dull pang of sorrow.

“Pick that up,” Gul’dan ordered.  Varian bent at the waist and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword, lifting it slowly.  The weapon was crudely-made and poorly balanced.  He wondered who had made this thing and dared to call it a sword.  Still, it was a weapon…  “Stand up, mongrel.”  Varian dug the point of the blade into the dirt and used the sword to leverage himself up, legs shaking like a newborn colt’s.  He was so hungry…  Gul’dan’s smile grew wider.

“My demons will bring a few of the mongrels up here,” the warlock said, voice low and pleased, “and you get to pick which one goes free.”

Varian shuddered, throat tight and a sick feeling churning in his gut.  He didn’t have long to wait – four Crusaders were already being shoved and prodded up to the ridge he and Gul’dan stood on.  He could pick out a few features; light-colored hair and humans seemed to be their commonality.  The demons escorting them laughed rather cruelly when the Crusaders fell to their knees, heads bowed and shoulders slumped in defeat and exhaustion.

Gul’dan prowled around the Crusaders, little puffs of black ash flying up in his wake.  Varian watched him through lidded eyes, swaying on his feet, sword held loosely at his side.  He was supposed to choose someone – choose someone from this line, and just…run them through. Or behead them, if that suited Gul’dan’s mood.  (Light-haired humans… Why was he fixating on that?)

“Well, mongrel?”

Varian’s lower lip trembled as he looked at the line.  They were all light-haired humans.  All male.  Oh, _Light_.  He felt bile rise in his throat and pushed the sick feeling back. Kill one, or watch them all fall to torture.  A horrific choice to make.  He walked forward, using the sword as a cane, legs still shaking.  The Crusaders stared up at him, various stages of defeat and outright denial on each face.  How was he…

He came to a halt in front of a young Crusader – blond, blue-eyed.  His heart beat heavily against his rib cage and his chest felt tight with terror.  He could have sworn that his son was kneeling before him…  That this one was _Anduin_.  (The eyes were the wrong shade of blue.  Too much grey, like Varian’s own.)  Bile burned his throat and Varian turned his head away, one shaking hand covering his mouth.

“This one, mongrel.”

Varian looked up at Gul’dan’s sharp order and felt his stomach bottom out.  His master’s hand rested on the blond Crusader’s head – the one who looked so much like Anduin.  The warlock’s lips had twisted up in a cruel smile, and he nodded once.

“Run this one through, mongrel, or the rest suffer for your…defiance.”

The former High King lifted the sword and positioned the tip above the Crusader’s ribs.  His eyes bled agony and apology, and he hoped the boy saw that.  Varian shoved the sword home with a sob and collapsed to his knees as the Crusader fell to his side, blood bubbling on his lips.  He looked so much like Anduin…

Varian curled up on the ash-covered ground, shaking with the force of his cries.

 

 

The other Crusaders were dragged back to the pit, eventually, and the one Varian had killed was removed by a demon.  Varian knelt on the ground, head resting against Gul’dan’s leg.  He felt drained, mentally, and now a dull numbness had settled over him like a damp woolen blanket, deadening him to any emotion he might have felt otherwise.  Gul’dan had won, and the warlock knew it.  Varian wondered, absently, what Gul’dan’s next step would be – train him to bark, maybe.  Walk on all fours.  Not even the faintest trace of terror managed to creep through his mind at the idea.  He just felt numb and resigned.  There was no rescue coming, no quick death.  Just a long, horrific life sentence as the warlock’s _pet_ and personal executioner.

One of the demons returned, carrying something that dripped blood.  Gul’dan took the thing from the demon, and dropped it to the ground in front of Varian.

Varian’s stomach rebelled at the sight of the bloody heart and turned away, retching bile onto the ground.  He looked up, eyes wide in terror as Gul’dan laughed.  His master’s smile made his stomach roil unpleasantly and Varian ground his teeth until his jaw creaked from the pressure.

“Eat, mongrel,” the warlock instructed, gesturing at the bloody heart.  Varian swallowed and shook his head, feeling ill.  So there _was_ something that could break through the fog…

“Please,” Varian whispered, voice rasping. “Please, don’t make me do this…”  His pride had fled some time ago, and begging had worked before.  (Judging by the warlock’s unpleasant smile, it wouldn’t this time.)

“Eat, mongrel,” the warlock repeated, “or I will make you watch as my demons tear the _others_ apart.  Do you want their blood on your hands?”  Varian swallowed, feeling dizzy.  He licked his lips and, finally, shook his head.  “Eat it.”  The command was harsh, and final.  Varian yelped as Gul’dan struck him, but bent double until his nose was almost pressed to the lump of red meat.  A puddle of rich red blood had formed under it, congealing in the cold air.  Varian felt bile rise in his throat.

He bit a piece off and swallowed, trying not to think about the source.  Each piece he consumed stuck in his throat on the way down, and weighed in his stomach like bits of lead.  His face was damp with blood and gore, and Varian was certain he would never be able to wash it away.  He was going to taste and smell this Crusader’s blood for the rest of his life.  Eventually, the taste of ash on his tongue became literal as well as figurative as he snapped the last bit off the ground, swallowing it whole like the rest.  His traitorous stomach, at least, was happy over being full _at last_.

His master patted the top of his head gently as he began crying, and somehow, that made it _worse_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pats Varian gently* Poor bastard.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anduin is there on the Broken Shore, except that can't be quite right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Minor gore, blood, violence, verbal and psychological abuse

The demons fitted him with permanent shackles the next day.  Wide bands of dark red leather circled his wrists and ankles, linked with short chains that prevented him from moving his hands more than a few inches apart and reduced him to a slow shuffle.  The shackles had been slipped over his hands and feet and tightened with a word in demonic that raised the hair on the back of Varian’s neck.  When he had attempted to adjust the bands of leather to make them sit more comfortably, he discovered the true insidiousness of his new bindings:  Each leather band was lined with needle-sharp spines that dug into his flesh at an angle that made them impossible to adjust or remove without stripping his hands and feet to the bone.

Gul’dan had been there while the shackles were fitted, fingers carding almost gently through Varian’s hair.  Varian had kept his eyes down, not wanting to provoke his master’s temper.  The dried blood and gore on his face – neither of which he had been permitted to clean off – stuck uncomfortably to his skin, flaking away as he grimaced.   It was a gruesome reminder of the price for defying his master.  The warlock’s smile had been amused, curling around his tusks, as Varian explored the extent of his new confinement.

Varian slumped against the broken pillar in the cavern when his master shuffled out, knees drawn up to his chest and bound hands massaging his injured, too-hot shoulder.  _A rescue is coming, a rescue is coming, a rescue is coming…_

His mantra was beginning to wear thin, cracking with his resolve and the taste-memory of a Crusader’s heart lingering on his tongue.  Doubt was overtaking hope, and…

_No rescue is coming for you_..

He was going to die here, of starvation or infection or from his master’s games, _long_ before a rescue of any sort arrived.  He was never going to run to his own rescue, now, not shackled as he was.  He was hobbled like livestock and trapped by his own weakened body.

Varian buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking

 

At some point, Varian realized he had begun crying.   He wiped the remaining tears back and sniffed, feeling rather pathetic.  The great king of Stormwind, reduced to a sniveling child.  He laughed hoarsely, noise echoing around the dark cavern.  Oh, if anyone could see him now…  The Horde would be de-

_The Horde_.

The Crusaders had confirmed Gul’dan’s rather gleeful boasting of Vol’jin’s death.  Warlocks had a tendency to gossip, and Thaedrin had passed along what he and the others had heard.  None of them believed, of course, that Sylvanas had replaced the troll as chieftain.  She was a poor choice – after everything she had done, after the Broken Shore…  Varian had almost hoped it was just a rumor and that Bloodhoof had replaced Vol’jin. (Or even Saurfang.  Anyone but Sylvanas for warchief; they had already had _one_ vengeful leader in control of the Horde, and now the Legion was invading.)

Varian almost missed the idea of Vol’jin being warchief.  He hadn’t minded the troll – anything was better than Hellscream, of course.  The troll was reasonable enough to work with, and had a tactical mind that Varian had rather admired, during the planning for the failed assault on the Broken Shore.  Vol’jin would have used some obscure troll magic to find him, and…

He snorted.  The what-ifs had been replaced by flights of fancy, wherein the _Horde_ realized he was alive and came to his aid.  He rolled his shoulders, grimacing as something popped in his uninjured shoulder.  He would have done calisthentics or some sort of exercise to keep his mind and body busy, but the injuries and the abuse heaped on him, and now the damn shackles… It just hadn’t been feasible.  His joints would _remain_ sore, not just from the damp and chill.  Light, but he hated getting older…

The king carefully maneuvered his body until he was on his back, injured shoulder guarded by the fallen pillar, and linked his hands over his belly as he stared up at the crack still slowly dripping water into the shallow pool still out of his reach.  There was no real rhythm to the droplets, but it was soothing to watch anyways.

His eyes drooped shut and his breathing evened out.  Soon, the former High King was sound asleep on the hard-packed earth, oblivious to the world around him.

\- o – o -

Varian awoke to the sensation of being burned alive and to Gul’dan leering down at him.  He moaned softly, indescribable pain radiating from his damaged shoulder.  His whole body felt as though he had been lit aflame, and he choked back a sob as he jostled his shoulder by accident.  The warlock standing over him made no move to help him, and Varian whined softly.  He’d behaved…he’d done what his master wanted.  He…he would treat it, wouldn’t he?

He made some garbled noise to that effect, causing his master to smirk.  Varian shrank back against the collapsed pillar he had curled up against in his sleep, eyes wide in fear, vision swimming.

“He’s awake, young prince.”

Varian’s heart fell to the vicinity of his toes as Gul’dan’s _guest_ appeared in his field of vision. _Anduin_.  He reached out a hand, mouth open in shock and horror…only for his son to bat his hand away, a look of disgust on his handsome features.  Those familiar blue eyes were narrowed in distaste, and a sneer twisted Anduin’s lips in a horrifically unfamiliar expression of loathing.

“Yes, I can see that, Gul’dan.”  Anduin gave a hollow laugh.  “He can’t even _die_ properly.”  Varian whined in confusion, struggling to push himself upright.  No, no, _no_ , this was _wrong_ ; Anduin couldn’t be _here_.  He was in Stormwind, he was safe, he was leading the Alliance, he’d never-  He’d never…  He panted softly, mind whirling and stomach churning in nauseated terror.  Anduin wouldn’t…

“Such a touching family reunion,” Gul’dan replied, mocking.  “It seems to me that you would want to _embrace_ your mongrel of a father.”

The cold, unfamiliar sneer was back on Anduin’s face.  “Please.”  He snorted derisively.  “He’s a pathetic husk who couldn’t even manage to sacrifice himself properly.  He’s _pathetic_.”  Varian flinched when his son spat at him, mind whirling as he tried to process his son’s betrayal.  “Master Warlock, if I thought my father was worth anything, I would have ransomed him from you already.  Still, a martyr is better for crushing the Horde than a live nuisance.”  Varian drew back as Anduin crouched down so they were eye to eye.  “If you had just dismantled the Horde like Auntie Jaina suggested, we wouldn’t be _in_ this position, you useless, disgusting _wretch_.”

Varian cowered.  It was a trick.  It was a trick, it was a trick, it was just a demon wearing Anduin’s face, it _had_ to be a demon wearing his son’s face, Anduin would _never-_   He pressed his shaking hands over his mouth as Anduin – please, let it just be a demon – aimed a kick at his ribs before standing up and stalking over to where Gul’dan had sat down, hands resting on his gnarled staff.

“If that pathetic thing amuses you so much,” Anduin said, voice carrying in the cavern, “keep it.  And make sure no one finds out that thing is alive.  If I’m going to crush the Horde, I need my _beloved_ father to remain a dead martyr against the treacherous Horde.”

Varian curled up against the pillar, shoulders shaking as he sobbed, fire racing through his body in time with his thudding heart.

_Please, not Anduin…_

\- o – o -

Varian knelt at Gul’dan’s feet, feeling listless and adrift.  His son – his _son_ , oh Anduin _why?_ – was on the Broken Shore, making deals with demons and the Legion, and…

No. That wasn’t right.  Was it?

He’d seen Anduin in a cage, hadn’t he?

His head spun as he tried to remember _where_ he had seen Anduin.  Everything was so blurry and confusing, and his head _ached_ – pulse pounding in his temples _bang bang bang_ , in time with his heartbeat and the throbbing burn in his injured shoulder, and…  He sighed softly, drooping against his master’s thigh.  His head ached abominably and his shoulder was on fire and everything hurt and he couldn’t remember…

Where had he seen his son?

Gul’dan’s hand descended to rest on his head, ruffling his lank hair affectionately.  Varian barely reacted, staring blearily at the wall of Gul’dan’s hut.  Hadn’t he seen – hadn’t he _heard_ – his son in the cavern?  … _Yes_ , that seemed right.  (So did seeing him in a cage, and with the Crusaders, and… None of those were right, and trying to think about it made his head pound.)

“- _mongrel_.”

Varian jerked under his master’s hand and he twisted to look up at the warlock, eyes wide and fever-bright.  His master had tried to get his attention several times now, judging by the expression on his face.  Varian looked down, curling in on himself in fear.  He pulled his bound hands closer to his chest, fingers curled protectively inwards in the vain hope that his master wouldn’t break his hands or fingers in his displeasure.

“Good mongrel.”  The warlock’s hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to look up into the other’s gleaming red eyes.  “My warlocks find themselves in need of entertainment, and I find myself needing Crusaders disposed of.”  The orc’s mouth twitched upwards.  “You can kill the Crusaders yourself, or watch the demons tear them apart.”

Varian stared numbly up at his master, throat bobbing as he swallowed.  He licked his lips, trying to find enough moisture to speak.

“I…I’ll….do it,” Varian rasped, tone heavy with defeat.  “Please…please…don’t hurt…them.”

Gul’dan laughed, pleased, and Varian shuddered at the sound, looking away again.

 

The armor wasn’t as good as what he had worn in the Crimson Ring, as Rhegar’s gladiator.  Varian stood stock still in the center of a stone room as broken-eyed Crusaders dressed him in leather armor, tightening the straps with knots when the buckles proved insufficient to hold it to his diminished body.  Even two months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to close the straps at the furthest link.  Now, he was just grateful for the extra layer of protection between injury and his bruised and batter ribs.

A dagger was thrust into his hands after the greaves had been fitted over his shaking legs.  Varian stared down at it, watching it waver and shimmer before his eyes.  There was a dull thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he really ought to see a healer before he passed out.  He pushed the thought away as one of the Crusaders returned, bearing a helm shaped something like a wolf’s head.  Varian shook his head irritably as it was placed over his head, almost blocking his vision.  He could almost imagine what he looked like now:  A mongrel creature, half-human, half-wolf.  If he saw himself in the mirror, which would he see more of?  His shoulders slumped and he resigned himself to what lay ahead.  There would be Crusaders, and he would have to kill each of them.  If he didn’t, if he balked, they would be tossed to the demons and torn apart – literally.

One of the broken-eyed Crusaders led him to the makeshift arena the warlocks had created.  It wasn’t so different from the coliseum in Dire Maul, or the ring in Orgrimmar.  Not as cheerful, perhaps, and with fewer vendors trying to hawk their wares to the waiting, blood-thirsty crowds, but the same principles applied.  Teams walked in, one walked out, and the losers were buried or reconstituted if they could be.  Varian flexed his hands around the hilt of the knife he had been given, and waited for his opponents.

…A _child_.  His first opponent was a _child_.  His vision wavered again and a wave of nausea and dizziness passed over him.  For a second, he could have sworn he was looking at Anduin, but…

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the fog threatening to obscure it.  And the vision of his son standing before him vanished.  The Crusader bore a passing resemblance to Anduin, but-

The Crusader’s face twisted in a snarl and he lunged, swinging a sword half again as big as his body.  Varian ducked, heavy fur thudding against his back as he moved.  The chains between his ankles had been removed for the duration of this… _entertainment_ , and he was grateful for the range of motion.  Not so for his hands, but he… Well.  At least he could move and dodge easily enough.  He twisted aside from another wild swing, and saw his opening.

The knife plunged into the boy’s back, and-

“ _F-fa-father?_ ”  Anduin stared up at him, blue eyes wide and frightened, blood bubbling between his lips, staining his pale, terrified features red red red.  Varian released the boy with a cry, eyes wide in horror as the face before him stubbornly remained Anduin’s.  He fell to his knees, hands shaking as he dropped the knife and reached for his boy, silently begging forgiveness or understanding, or – Anduin, or whatever looked like Anduin, cowered away from him, tried to crawl away from him.  Varian sank to his knees, mouth open but no sound emerging.

“ _Weak_ ,” a too-familiar voice hissed in his ear.  “Just like I _thought_.”

No, no, he’d just killed Anduin, Anduin was lying on the ground just feet from him.  Varian moaned brokenly, shaking his head in denial and confusion.

“Pathetic!”

Varian grasped his knife – how had he gotten his knife again? – and turned, eyes wide in mixed confusion and terror.  Anduin was standing over him, a look of absolute _hatred_ twisting his features into something Varian couldn’t even recognize.  His hands tightened around the hilt and…

He stared in horror as Anduin looked down.  The knife was buried to the hilt in Anduin’s chest, red blood rapidly staining the front of his elegant coat.  Varian stared dumbly at the knife, uncomprehending.

His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: Varian has a raging fever from infection and Gul'dan is using that in conjunction with some demons and a bit of magic to fuck with him mentally and break down whatever defenses he has left.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tirion Fordring survived, and is not happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Non-graphic illness, demons being demons, non-graphic descriptions of injuries

Tirion limped into the cavern, wincing as his ribs creaked in protest against the movement.  The demons – Balnazaar in particular – had been all too eager to force him into this cavern.  All things considered, it was better than being outside.  He grimaced as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.  Not much of an improvement, but –

There was a figure crouched by a pool of water in the center of the cavern.  The thing leapt backwards, away from Tirion’s place on the ruined stairs, dragging a heavy chain along with a rattle of metal links.  Tirion stared for the space of a few heartbeats before descending the last few stairs.  As soon as his feet touched the ground at the base of the ruined stairs, the figure – a man, with tangled, matted hair pulled back in a messy tail – _snarled_.  The Highlord stepped back, one hand going up to shield his ribs from the event of an attack.  The chain keeping the feral thing from wandering rattled, drawing a pained whine as the man crouched back down, hands wrapping around the links and tugging at them.  The noises were desperate now, fast little pants and whines of pain and confusion.

Tirion stepped forward again, one hand held out.  He stopped again when the man jerked back, yelping in pain as the chain – a leash, Tirion’s tired mind finally realized – snapped taut.  He knelt down carefully, holding his hands up to show that he carried nothing.

“Easy there, lad,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle and steady.  “Easy now.  I mean you no harm.”  A mostly useless platitude, on this blighted rock, but he had made the attempt.  The man made a noise of confusion and crouched down, one hand still wrapped around the chain in an attempt to keep the links slack.  His other hand dangled at his side, shoulder disjointed and arm at an odd angle.  Tirion held his hands up again so the man could see them.

“Are you in pain, lad?” the paladin asked, voice soft but carrying.  “I’m a paladin.  I can help you.”  The man whined softly and tossed his head like an agitated horse, tangled hair bouncing with the motion.  “It’s alright, lad…” Tirion frowned as he saw the man shiver, and took a longer look at his fellow prisoner in this miserable cavern.  The lad was clad in a pair of ripped, stained shorts – his undergarments, Tirion realized.  He was filthy enough that, at a first hurried look, he had appeared to be wearing more clothing.  “Are you cold?”  Tirion kept his voice even and soothing, falling into the tone he would have used to soothe a spooked horse or an animal caught in a trap.  It seemed appropriate.

After a few seconds, the man nodded; and then, miraculously, inched forward.  The chain rattled as he shuffled forward and Tirion smiled encouragingly.  He stopped, just out of arm’s reach, staring at him with wide, fever-glazed blue eyes.

_Blue eyes…_ Tirion’s eyes widened in recognition.  Dark hair, blue eyes…

“ _Varian?_ ” he breathed, reaching forward despite his only silent promise to remain still.  “ _Varian Wrynn?_ ”

Varian, and it _was_ the High King, snarled and jerked back, scrambling away in panic.  The snarl turned into another pained yelp as the chain snapped taut once more.  Now that his eyes had adjusted fully to the gloom, Tirion could see the thing wrapped around the High King’s throat.  It was a cruel thing, lined with barbs designed to dig into soft flesh.  A collar made to punish disobedient hounds or drive them into a frenzy.  (Or, Tirion remembered with a churning feeling in his gut, to keep disobedient prisoners compliant through pain.)  Varian whined softly, tugging at the chain, fever-glazed eyes still focused on the paladin.

 “It’s alright lad,” Tirion soothed, reaching up to undo the thin chains holding his cloak to his armor.  “Here.”  He swung the heavy fabric off his shoulders and held it out.  “It’s quite warm, lad.  Come here, it’s alright.”  The cloak was rather bedraggled after his swim through a fel-tainted lake, and there were more holes in the heavy material than he would have preferred, but it was large enough to cover his armor and far warmer than the rags clinging to the High King’s body.

Varian crept forward again, eyeing him warily.  He grabbed the cloak when he was in range and crab-walked away from Tirion, clutching the heavy cloak to his chest as though it were a security blanket and he a child of few years.  Tirion ducked his head to hide his amused smile as the High King wrapped the ragged cloak around his shoulders, a noise of delight escaping him.

“… _Warm_.”

The word was dry and cracked, little more than a whispered croaking.  It was clear Varian had not needed – or had the desire – to speak in some time.  He had drawn the cloak around his broad shoulders and was clutching it shut with the hand he had used to hold the chain, eyes closed in contentment.  Tirion smiled again.

“Thank…you…” Varian rasped, huddling deeper into the folds of the Highlord’s cloak.  Tirion nodded.

“Of course, lad,” he agreed.  “You keep that,” he added when Varian’s eyes opened.  “You need it more than I do.”  He patted his armor for emphasis, suddenly grateful that the demons had left him his armor and the many layers under it.  How long had the High King been in this frigid pit, dressed in rags and chained like a beast?  How long had he been on the verge of hypothermia, even as he was tortured by these demons?

“…thank…you,” the High King whispered again, tucking his chin against his collarbone.  He closed his eyes again, apparently done speaking.  Tirion leaned against the fallen pillar at his end of the pit, suddenly rather exhausted himself.  If the demons had meant for the High King to kill him, they would be disappointed when they returned, for neither of them were dead and Varian was not likely to die of exposure now.  He smiled.  Well, anything to fight the Legion, even if it meant giving a cloak to someone who needed it more.

 

Tirion awoke to the sensation of an overly warm human body curled heavily against his, a greasy head of hair tucked against his shoulder, and soft breath puffing across his exposed neck.  His tired mind worked furiously, trying to determine _what_ was laying on him.  And then he remembered:  _Varian Wrynn, alive and…mostly well._   He craned his neck a little and looked down, an almost fond smile twitching half his mouth upwards.

The High King was using him as a pillow, still curled up under the heavy blue wool of Tirion’s cloak.  He was radiating heat like a furnace and beads of sweat dotted his brow.  Despite the heat, he was shivering quite badly, tremors wracking his body as he continued to sleep.  Tirion shifted until the younger man slid off his shoulder and crumpled sideways towards the ground; the movement seemed insufficient to wake him, and the paladin frowned as his companion began shaking like a leaf in a windstorm – almost convulsing, as it were.

He pried the edge of the blue cloak out of Varian’s grip and peeled one of his gloves off with his teeth, tossing the leather away as he began searching the younger man’s body for injuries or…  He stopped as the cloak fell away from the High King’s other shoulder.  He had thought the joint looked damaged and oddly disjointed, and now, up close, he could see the ugly black lines radiating out from a raw-looking wound on his shoulder.  Tirion had a feeling the same ugly black lines would radiate out from a matching, equally raw wound on the lad’s back.

“Light,” Tirion breathed, pressing his ungloved hand to Varian’s injured shoulder as he searched for the thread connecting him to the Holy Light.  “Light, _please_ …”

Varian remained unconscious, still shaking as tremors ran through his body.

\- o – o -

“—I need fresh water and clean bandages, at least!”

Varian shifted, frowning as he tried to process the world around him.  Everything hurt.  Master still hadn’t fixed him, even though he’d been good… Hadn’t he? He’d behaved, he’d done what Master had wanted, and…  He shifted onto his side, moaning softly as the yelling started again.  Everything _hurt_ , and the yelling was making it so much worse…

“Oh, Light damn you!  Please, at least give him some poppy wine for the pain!  He’s _dying!_ ”

The angry voice cut off again.  Varian kept his eyes closed.  Master wasn’t here.  It was just someone yelling about someone dying.  He wished they would just go _away_ and let him sleep until the pain stopped, or…  Something.

_Why did they sound concerned about_ him _?_

A thought flashed through his mind, then:  _Someone came back_.  Almost as soon as it had arrived, it fizzled out.  Master wouldn’t let him leave.  He had to stay here and behave and be good for Master or his shoulder wouldn’t be healed.  (In the back of his mind, a little voice piped up that even the _Horde_ would treat him if he had indeed been rescued, if only so they had a living political prisoner to force the Alliance to do things the Horde’s way.)

He opened his eyes and stared blearily up at the roof of the cavern.  Two figures stood just out of his line of sight.  One of them was a demon, illuminated in the glow of something just behind it.  The other was…another demon.  Or maybe Tirion Fordring.  He had _seen_ Tirion fall, though, into a lake of felfire.  Tirion Fordring was _dead_ , and—

But his son was supposed to be safe and leading the Alliance, and he had been _here_ and working with Gul’dan and—

A cool hand came to rest on his forehead, and concerned grey-blue eyes bored into his.  Tirion’s beard was ragged and patchy, nowhere near as groomed as it had been when he had departed with the Crusade to lay siege to the Black City.  Burns marred the side of his face, disappearing under his collar and probably descending further.  One eye was almost sealed shut, and the scarring pulled his mouth up into a hideous, rictus smile.  The expression on the unburnt side of his face was grim, but concerned.  Varian opened his mouth, but all that came out was a dry croak.

The Highlord’s expression melted into warmth and a gentle glow seemed to illuminate his body.  Varian squinted against the light and felt something almost like calm settle over him.  He sighed and curled towards Tirion, seeking some of that light for himself, if only because it made his head stop pounding.  His shoulder protested the move and he moaned softly, pain radiating through his body in harsh waves.

“Varian,” Tirion remonstrated him, voice rough as though he had been screaming recently.  “Lad, don’t move.  Your shoulder is mending, but it won’t take if you move.”  A cool hand descended to his brow and Varian whined softly, trying to press himself into the cool, gentle touch.  Master wasn’t this kind to him.  He just needed to behave better and Master would do this for him, and…

Varian’s thoughts trailed off and a hoarse sob spilled past his lips.

Before he knew it, Tirion had gathered him up in a hug, rocking him gently as he shook from the force of his cries.

“It’s alright, lad.  It’s alright…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I borrowed poppy wine from GoT.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tirion wants to punch a demon in the face. (So does Varian.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tirion has a plan. It's dangerous, but it's a plan!

Varian leaned heavily against Tirion, half-curled under the heavy woolen cloak the Highlord had given him.  He was still feverish and sweaty, but still alive – a miracle, as far as Tirion was concerned.  The former High King sighed softly, eyes still closed.   Finding the High King had been a miracle Tirion hadn’t expected in this wretched place, and even though the lad wasn’t sound of mind or body from what the demons had put him through, he was still alive and that _had_ to count for something.

And, perhaps, one of them would even get out of this alive.

Tirion stared at the cracked dais where his sword hung suspended in the air.  Foul green smoke curled around it, and he could almost hear the Ashbringer’s misery as the attempted corruption continued.  The Argent Crusade would, eventually, feel the sword’s misery through the Light.  Not soon enough to save him, perhaps, but soon enough to save the High King and the Ashbringer.  Both of them were more important – Varian for a morale coup, and Ashbringer because a second corruption would destroy the blade.  Permanently, this time.

_If there were a way_ …

Varian stirred against his shoulder, moaning softly.  Tirion didn’t blame him – healing the raw wounds on the lad’s shoulder had left him feeling as though a shredder had trampled him.  He didn’t think he could imagine the sheer amount of pain Varian was experiencing from having the wounds forcibly cleansed of fel.  (Although he imagined it felt something like swimming through a lake of felfire.)  He tucked a few strands of lank black hair back behind Varian’s ear, smiling as the younger man’s features softened.  Dreams still offered the High King an escape, at least.  Something had remained untainted by this cursed rock.  His eyes drifted back to the Ashbringer.  If he didn’t know it would summon Balnazzar, he’d have rushed the platform to grab his blade back… And….then what?  He could run with Varian, he supposed, but there was nowhere to run.  Not quickly, and not safely.

Varian shifted again, jerking awake this time and staring blearily up at Tirion as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing.  Given how fever-touched and feral he had been on their first meeting as captives of the Legion, Tirion couldn’t blame him.  A muscle in Varian’s jaw twitched and his eyes searched Tirion’s face, trying to put the pieces together.

“… _How_?”  The word came out as a soft croak, and Varian’s eyes were wider now, filled with a look of fear and desperation and…hope.  Tirion leaned back against the broken pillar he had claimed for himself, arms crossed and legs extended in front of him – he looked far more relaxed than he felt as he shrugged.

“How am I still alive?” Tirion guessed.  Varian nodded, a hand twitching up to touch the spikes of his collar nervously.  The younger man coughed and cringed, pulling his fingers away quickly.  Tirion’s face fell. “I don’t know, lad, but,” he gestured at the Ashbringer, “the Legion wants that sword, and they can’t get it while I’m alive.”  He smiled, burns on his face pulling the expression into a horrific mask.  “And they can’t use it while I still believe in the Light.  They’ll break my faith, and then they’ll kill me.”

Varian almost fell into his lap at that point, pushing the air out of Tirion’s lungs as the High King’s surprisingly solid body fell against his.  One arm was rather clumsily wrapped around his neck, and Tirion realized that Varian was attempting to give him a hug.  An attempt at comfort, on this wretched rock…  Tirion had to smile at the gesture.  After everything he must have endured, and Varian still wanted to protect anyone he saw as ‘his people’.

“I mended your arm,” Tirion said, switching topics as Varian drooped against him, still giving him a clumsy, one-armed hug.  “You need a surgeon’s care, but I am no surgeon and I doubt we could find one on this rock.”  He smiled, and Varian smiled back, almost shyly.  “As it is, you won’t be able to lift your arm again; I’ve informed our captors that if they force you to move it from the position I’ve set it in, you’ll die.”  Varian shuddered against him, fingers twitching.  When Tirion caught sight of the hope shining on Varian’s face, he felt ill.

“Perhaps we’ll be rescued before it comes to that, hm?”  Tirion smiled gently.  “Trust in the Light.  We will survive this.”

Varian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

 

 

The demons were particularly interested in tormenting Varian, Tirion noted.  The lesser demons – the skulking little fiends burdened by packs filled with whatever they had stolen or grabbed up off the ground, imps, and even a few things Tirion didn’t know the name of – scurried in and out of the cavern.  The few times Varian hadn’t been near him, the demons had started to torment the younger man, often with scraps of food, dangled just out of the High King’s reach.  Tirion had watched the younger man lunge for the food, only to fall back and claw desperately at the spiked chain around his throat.

After the first time, Tirion had kept Varian close to him, and had kicked any demon who’d come near them.  It was worth the unpleasant scratches he received in return.  (And the demons had dropped enough in their hurry to get away that Varian had finally been able to eat whatever he’d been taunted with.  The expression of relief on the lad’s face as he shoved the scraps of bread or meat, however moldy or rotted they might have been, into his mouth made Tirion’s heart break.)

No demons had come into the cavern over the past few days, as Tirion had managed to judge them.  He’d spent the time well, he felt, digging away the dirt around the heavy ring Varian had been chained to.  He had a plan, half-formed, to get them both out.  There were, according to the last scouting report he’d heard, kraken in the bay near this wretched hole.  He was a strong swimmer, and the demons wouldn’t dare to follow them into the ocean.  Varian, as far as the Highlord knew, would recover enough to swim out to where the wreckage of the fleet was.  From there, they could…raft their way back to Stormwind, perhaps, or Orgrimmar, if he were feeling fanciful.  He had allies there too.  (Eitrigg was a tough old dog, and Tirion could count on his support at least.  And, even though he hated to admit the idea, the Horde would welcome Varian as a hostage with open arms.  Anything was better than the Legion.)

He picked up his rock and began digging again, one eye on the cave entrance.  So far, he had been lucky and nothing had come to investigate the noise.  Varian had helped hide the digging, kicking the dirt into the shadows and keeping a lookout, perched oddly on one of the broken pillars like some underfed vulture.

“The first thing I’m doing when we get out of here,” Tirion said as he sat back on his heels, “is take a _bath_.  A long, hot bath.  And then I’m going to eat enough food for a horse.”  Varian looked at him, head tilted to the side.  In the dim light from the felfire swirling around the Ashbringer, Tirion could see a quick grin flit across Varian’s face.  The younger man nodded in agreement, and the smile reappeared, soft and shy.  “And after I’ve done that, I’m going to find the Crusade, and I’m going to punch a demon in the face.”

Varian’s laugh was wheezing, but genuine.  And infectious.  Tirion found himself laughing as he began digging again.  They would be out of here soon.

They _had_ to be out of here soon.

The Ashbringer’s glow brightened a bit.

\- o – o -

“Keep running until we hit the water,” Tirion instructed, helping Varian adjust the cloak around his shoulders.  “Once we get far enough out to swim, we’ll dive down and keep heading out to sea.  The demons can’t follow us under the water, and they’ll have to double back to get someone to chase us.”  He grinned, burns pulling.  “That will buy us enough time, and if it comes to it, we’re both cleverer by far than they are, so we’ll win the fight.”

Varian’s mouth quirked up in a small smile as he gathered the chain attached to the collar around his neck up.  The scratches around his neck would burn like felfire when they started swimming, but that kind of pain could be dealt with.

“Come on, lad,” Tirion said, looping Varian’s arm around his shoulders.  “We haven’t much time before they discover we’ve run.”

They took the stairs two at a time, the idea of an escape revitalizing them the further out of the cavern they got.  No demons hovered near the end of the tunnel, and no lesser demons scurried around the beach to impede their path.  At the end of the tunnel, Varian hesitated.  Tirion looked down and almost smiled when he saw Varian digging his toes into the dirt.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that once we’ve rescued ourselves, lad.”

“… _yes_ ,” Varian croaked, nodding.  Guilt flashed across his features and Tirion felt as though he’d kicked a puppy.  The expression left, and the High King began moving forward again.  It was less than a quarter mile to the shore, and less than a hundred feet to reach the deepest point of the water.  They could close that distance _easily_ , and then this wretched place would be far, far behind them.

Varian’s borrowed cloak flared out behind them like some great bird’s wings as he broke into a run.  Tirion kept pace, keeping one eye on the sky for patrolling felbats.  Those chattering monsters could ruin any escape plan in a heartbeat, just by looking down at an inopportune moment.

And… -There! There was the shore!  Tirion could almost taste fresh, clean air, and-

Varian let out a sharp, pained noise and dropped to the ground next to him.  Tirion looked down from the sky to see what had caught Varian’s attention and felt his stomach clench painfully.  He wanted to retch at the sight:  Four rotting corpses in the Argent Crusade’s colors, impaled on massive spikes of fel iron.  Four of his people, and obviously four people Varian knew.

The younger man had fallen to his knees and was rocking in terror as a low, awful keening noise left his mouth.

“Well, well,” a silky voice purred behind them.  “What have we here?”

They had been discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil laughter in the distance*
> 
> Ok, so I've got a job irl now, so I might actually have more frequent updates because writing will take less time than playing Warcraft.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan is a bastard, but we knew that already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update with Gul'dan's pov.

Gul’dan watched the mongrel sleep, an amused smile on his face.  His pet had struggled valiantly when he and the other small-teeth had been discovered on the beach, and had even managed to land a few injurious blows of his own.  The mongrel had stopped fighting when the older one had been threatened, proving once again why he, Gul’dan, was superior.  Small-teeth were a curious lot:  An orc would have ripped their enemies apart for threatening a companion.  The mongrel had folded to save his friend.

That hadn’t, of course, spared either of them from a beating.  Balnazaar had taken the paladin away, out of the mongrel’s sight.  The physical pain of being whipped and having an ankle shattered had been _nothing_ compared with the agony of listening to the old paladin scream until the noise had abruptly stopped.  The mongrel had gone limp in the demons’ grip, and hadn’t resisted as Gul’dan ordered him muzzled and chained like a disobedient hound.  The warlock had considered having the muzzle made with the same material as the cuffs around his pet’s wrists and ankles; and, while the pain would have been _indescribable_ , the damage would have been irreversible.

He’d rather have his pet alive to watch as Azeroth burned under the Legion’s onslaught, after all.

The warlock leaned back on his throne – an affectation he’d taken from other orcish chieftains, and not one he normally would have taken up himself – and rubbed one of his knees.  The cold on this rock made his twisted joints ache abomdinably.  Still, this rock was where his master had commanded him to perform his rituals until the Eye of Aman’thul could be claimed, so here he would remain.  And here, of course, he could break his mongrel’s will with relative ease.  (He’d thought the cuffs and deprivations would have kept the mongrel in its place at his feet; but then, he’d thought leaving Hellscream’s torture to a demon would have broken _that_ wolf’s will.  Although that might have succeeded, if not for Azeroth’s meddlesome _heroes_.)

Where he had failed with Hellscream, he would _succeed_ with Wrynn.

He’d have to break the mongrel’s will himself, this time, instead of foolishly entrusting it to a demon with a grudge.  He’d assumed that the fever and a dreadlord impersonating Wrynn’s precious whelp would have been enough – it had almost _been_ enough, if not for Balnazaar’s grudge and that _stupid_ decision to put the Highlord in contact with the mongrel.  But the mongrel was stubborn and strong-willed.  Perhaps another pit…

The mongrel stirred on the ground where Gul’dan had chained it, soft noises of pain and distress issuing from behind the muzzle.  He hadn’t bothered to blindfold his pet this time; there would be time to invoke that punishment later.  (It was almost a pity the insect he’d used in the pit some weeks previously was dead.  He could have amused himself by setting it on his pet and watching the mighty Varian Wrynn try to escape it.)

The small-teeth began writhing on the hide-covered ground, clearly in pain and starting to panic as he attempted to escape his bonds and the sharp pain of broken bones.  The soft, almost sleepy noises of distress turned into full-blown cries of pain, and then outright shrieking as the bonds around his wrists, ankles, and neck began to tear at his flesh.  All the noises were muffled behind the stiff leather covering the lower half of his face, adding to the mongrel’s panic.  Gul’dan’s smile grew wider around his tusks and he rubbed his cold, aching hands together before reaching for his staff.

He rapped the base of his staff against the mongrel’s shattered ankle and grinned crookedly as his pet whimpered and curled away from him.  The thin, battered body began trembling when no further punishment or pain came, and Gul’dan smirked.

“Mongrel.”  The shaking increased, until the rattling of the chains became audible.  Fear-glazed blue eyes stared up at him, wide in distress and brimming with unshed tears.  “Behave, and I may be inclined to remove the muzzle.  Continue to be obstinate, and I’ll have you blinded.”  He delivered his ultimatum in a pleasant tone, as though discussing the weather, and was rewarded with the mongrel’s whimper of terror and a solid body pressed against his legs, still quivering from fear.

“Good mongrel,” Gul’dan purred, bending to run a hand through his pet’s hair.  He combed a few snarls out with his fingers and tucked the loose strands gently behind the small-teeth’s ear.  The former chieftain trembled under his hand, but remained where he was curled on the ground, accepting the treatment.  The warlock turned and shuffled away, leaving the mongrel to tremble in fear or perhaps finally pass out.

If nothing else, his pet might _finally_ learn his place.

 

Gul’dan returned from his preparations to break the shields of Suramar – and _oh_ , his master had been so _thrilled_ to learn that Suramar was still infested with vermin – several hours later, late dusk sun creeping into his hut as he pushed the door flap aside.  His mongrel lay in the dirt at the foot of his bed, fast asleep and curled into a ball.  His pet’s neck was streaked with dried blood, and Gul’dan could see finger marks in the dirt where the mongrel must have scrabbled after something – food, most likely.  He’d have to remind the warlocks to keep the lesser demons out of his domicile.

He limped across the hut to the wash basin to rinse the grime and dust of travelling from one end of the island to the other off his face and chest.  He would _never_ enjoy that about this place.  Even as a child, in a village no one living would remember, there had always been water for washing.  When he had become a warlock, the need for cleanliness had become paramount – if a summoning circle was disrupted by a stray bit of debris, the demon one was attempting to bind would suddenly become _much_ harder to deal with (and had often resulted in a dead warlock, as some of his idiot apprentices had learned the _hard_ way on Draenor).  Now, here on this accursed rock on an equally accursed planet, cleanliness was just as necessary.  The black ash was uncomfortable and the grit irritated his eyes if he didn’t sponge it away from his brow and lashes.  The warlock half-turned from his ablutions to look at his pet and felt his lip curl.  The small-teeth was filthy from weeks spent lying in the dirt with nothing between his body and the ground but the rags he was wearing.  Lank hair fell around the mongrel’s face, clumping into thick, greasy hanks that tangled in a tie at the back of his head.  Gul’dan shook his head and turned back to his bathing.  He’d have one of his junior warlocks give the mongrel a good scrubbing tomorrow.  It would, at least, keep the stench of unwashed human down.

Gul’dans smile became twisted as he put the damp rag he had been using down on the edge of the basin to drip-dry.  His mongrel would have to pay for the privilege of bathing, of course, but he could reinforce that training at his leisure.  He limped over to his bed and knelt down on a woven mat he had carried here from Draenor.  The chieftain of his childhood clan had prized this ugly thing, and Gul’dan liked to think of how the old bastard would cringe to know that Gul’dan the Cripple was using it.

“Behave tonight, mongrel,” he said, voice loud enough to carry, “and I”ll feed you tomorrow.”

The mongrel twitched awake, staring in his direction with large blue eyes.  His pet’s nose twitched, nostrils flaring like a wolf with a scent.  The warlock smirked as the mongrel ducked his head, curling back up like an obedient dog, clearly eager to behave and earn the right to eat.  He slid his cloak off and crawled onto his soft pad of furs and blankets, laying down on his belly like a beast, the spines on his back arching into the air.  No true orc would lay on their belly like an animal, but then…

_But then, here I am, poised to conquer an entire world like no orc ever has_.

The thought amused him, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Varian's pov, promise.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varian receives some halfway good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. (And I found my inspiration.)

Varian stayed curled on the ground where he had been chained, nose twitching as the appetizing scent of his master’s morning meal filled the hut.  It smelled like eggs and fresh bread and he cringed as his stomach growled loudly.  He’d done his best to be quiet, to behave like Master wanted, if only so he could at least lick the plate clean when Master was done eating.

Anxiety churned in his belly as his stomach grumbled again and he pressed his fingers against the muzzle covering his face, trying to control the whimpers of pain as his belly cramped.  It had been so _long_ since those scraps the demons had taunted him with in the cave…

Something landed on the floor in front of his nose and he curled away from it, eyes squeezing shut on instinct.  He heard Master laugh and whined softly behind the muzzle, eyes opening a fraction.  The muzzle was unbuckled and Varian let out a low whine as the stiff leather was pulled away from his face, taking a few strands of hair from his ragged ponytail with it.  He cringed as he saw his master’s feet moved, almost expecting a sharp blow from his master’s staff for his disobedience.

“Behave, mongrel.”

His master didn’t sound _displeased_ , exactly, but Varian still tensed as his leash was pulled, following the movement until he could roll onto his hands and knees, still not daring to look at whatever food Master thought he deserved.  It smelled like bread.

“Eat, pet.”

Varian stared down at the crusts on the ground in front of him, stomach grumbling softly in protest.  It was fresh, even if it was only a few scraps of his master’s food.  He crouched down and began eating it, trying to keep his movements slow and delicate – if he wolfed this down, he’d make himself sick and Master would beat him or throw him back in that cave or…  He licked his lips, tasting the remnants of butter.  His stomach churned unpleasantly as the rich food – richer than anything he’d had in recent memory – hit him.  Still, it was food and the alternative was to continue starving and refusing Master’s generous gift.

He picked the last scrap off the ground and swallowed it whole, not bothering to chew, and gingerly settled back on one side, something in his broken ankle grinding unpleasantly as he steadied himself with his hands pressed against the hides covering the hut’s floor.  He licked his lips again, almost wishing Master would throw him more scraps or speak or give him an order or...or _something_.

His answer came in the form of Master picking the muzzle back up.  Varian whined softly, muscles in his jaw tensing as the stiff leather was buckled back over the lower half of his face.  Master’s hand was in his hair again, tangled in the ragged mess at the base of his neck, dragging his head up and back until his neck protested the strain.  By some miracle of the Light, he managed to keep his breathing even.

“Behave, mongrel, and you will have more to eat tonight.”

The warlock let go of his hair, and Varian shuffled back to the patch of ground he had slept on, for lack of any orders to the contrary.  With his wrists and ankles chained together, he wouldn’t be going anywhere unless his master willed it – not easily, at least, and not without outside aid.

He shifted his weight off his ankles, wincing as the broken one protested the movement with a hot wave of pain that raced up his leg.  Master had been so very, very angry that he had attempted to escape… Light only knew what had happened to Tirion.  He curled up, knees drawn to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his shins.

One day, he would escape.

…Maybe.

\- o – o -

Something heavy slammed into his ribs and Varian yelped, startling awake from a sound slumber.  The assault continued, vicious kicks and the hard end of Master’s staff slamming into any bit of his body both could reach, even as he started pleading for mercy behind the muzzle.  He managed to block one strike with his forearm and felt something snap, and he _screamed_.

The blows stopped, eventually, but Varian stayed in his protective huddle, cowering away from the enraged warlock and trying to protect his broken arm as best he could.  A slim hand fisted in his hair, jerking him upright until his toes barely brushed the ground, heavy chain connected to his collar pulling the spikes into the back of his neck.  He choked, feet kicking uselessly for purchase as the blows began raining down on his face, chest, and groin.

His master finally stopped beating him and whoever had pulled him up – an elf, he guessed, staring blearily up at the figure through swollen eyes – dropped him back to the ground.  He lay there in a heap of tangled, bruised limbs, breath coming in shallow pants.  Tears streaked down his face and he tried crawling forward, to press himself against Master’s legs and beg forgiveness for whatever he’d done that had upset the warlock so.

“ _Chain that mongrel outside!_ ”

Gul’dan wasn’t angry, Varian thought dimly as the elf who’d held him during the beating dragged him outside by his hair, he was _furious_.  He curled up on the ground, movements sluggish, and shivered in the chill air as the elf hammered a stake into the ground to hold his leash.  His limbs felt heavy and he was dimly aware that he might be concussed – although he didn’t feel very nauseous, so it was probably just shock.  His injured shoulder ached dully against the ground, a counterpoint to the pain radiating out from a cheekbone he thought might be fractured.  Shifting his jaw within the confines of the muzzle made sparks flash in his vision and nausea clawed at his throat.

Varian shifted, trying to get comfortable, and his broken forearm hit something.

His vision went white, then grey, and he finally passed into the arms of unconsciousness.

 

He awoke some time later as a bucket of frigid, foul-smelling water was dumped on him.  Varian yelped and jerked away, trying to escape the new torment.  White sparks flashed in his vision again and he began panting in terror, breathing harshly through his nose as he jarred his broken arm against the resistance of the shackles around his wrist.

“Your kind are _annoyingly_ persistent.”  Master’s voice was somewhere over him, outright _malice_ coloring his voice to a degree Varian hadn’t heard before.  He shuddered again, cold water dripping over the muzzle and down his chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake.  He could dimly see the orc’s feet as the warlock shuffled closer to him and cowered away, undamaged arm held up to shield his head as best he could.

“ _Your people_ ,” the warlock continued, voice dangerously low, “keep _disrupting_ my master’s plans.”  Varian’s soft mewls of pain must have pleased the orc, because Gul’dan’s hand came to rest on top of his head, petting him almost affectionately.  “Your friend is dead, by the way,” the warlock continued, tone rather affectionate.  “The pests were too late to save him.”  Varian shivered under the warlock’s hand, arm sending white-hot sparks of agony through his body as he shook.  The warlock patted him again and Varian flinched as the bucket cracked against something near his head.  He flinched, and flinched again as Gul’dan laughed.  “Perhaps I should let the Alliance know you still live.  They would do _anything_ to ensure your safety…”  The warlock laughed.  “Behave, mongrel.”

Varian curled up on the ground as his master shuffled away.  He relaxed a little after he was certain the warlock was gone, still shaking.  The numbness of before failed to re-emerge and he was left shivering and in pain, still muzzled and alone, chained outside his master’s hut.  The only balm he had for the pain was that Tirion, at least, was beyond the Legion’s grasp.

…And he was still Gul’dan’s pet.

He curled up on the ground, eyes closed and hands tucked under his chin.

At least Tirion was free of the Legion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's a little short but it's at least advancing the plot.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan is a dick, and dread infiltrators are a menace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return with more of Gul'dan's pov.

He had lost his temper.

The cursed, so-called Knights of the Silver Hand had broken his line and stolen the Ashbringer out from under one of the most ruthless demons under his command, saved their damn _Highlord_ from _finally_ succumbing to the fel at long last, and had swept out again, leaving nothing but Light-infused beach behind them!  Gul’dan snarled in wordless rage.  He had lost his temper and _that_ was unacceptable.  He was the master of his emotions and the master of the Burning Legion’s campaign on this accursed rock.  He would _not_ be ruled by his base emotions!

The warlock threw the wash basin to the ground, chest heaving and a dull sense of satisfaction settling in.  If he didn’t want the mongrel of a human chieftain alive so he could gloat, he’d have the mongrel dead at his feet, shattered like the stone basin.

He snarled a few more curses under his breath and waved a hand in the basin’s direction, reforming it with a few strands of sickly green magic.  He stooped to pick the basin up and set it back on its stand, grabbing the jug of fresh water to fill it again.  Bathing was normally calming, but his mind had no desire for _calm_.  Calm was for when everything was going according to plan.  Calm was for when he was reaping the rewards of victory.  Calm was _never_ for the pestilential denizens of Azeroth storming his island and stealing things from him!

…Perhaps he _did_ need calm, given that he was about to throw a childish tantrum.

He grabbed the rag from the edge of the stand and dipped it in the water, letting it soak before dragging the damp fabric over his neck and chest to remove the day’s grime.  He scowled, lips pulling around his tusks as he contemplated just how _poorly_ this news was going to be received.  And after he had reassured his masters that the paladins were more than occupied with that idiotic hammer…

He would have to find _something_ to keep Kil’jaden’s fury at bay, and _soon_.  Balnazaar was too dead right now to thrust any blame onto.  At least his masters couldn’t blame him for Val’Sharah or Highmountain…

Gul’dan threw the rag into the basin with a grunt of annoyance, wiping water droplets away from his face with one hand.  Bathing would not be calming today, he could sense it already.  Skovald was an idiot, Xavius was an idiot, Highmountain needed to be razed, the Alliance was a perpetual thorn in his damn side, that blonde bitch had resurfaced in Stormheim several weeks ago, and -

“Lord Gul’dan?  The naga have lost the Tidestone…”

It _could_ get worse.

 

Gul’dan swept out of his hut, cloak draped over his bent frame, robes swishing against the ground as he moved. He felt the lack of Cordana Felsong’s presence rather keenly.  She had returned to the Vault of the Wardens some time ago, leaving his flank exposed and his insight into that foul archmage’s mind sorely lacking.  Her absence was unpleasant, and he could only hope that she would return from whatever petty revenge she was after soon.  The corrupted demon hunter following him lacked the former Warden’s… _finesse_.

Still, he could trust the mongrel elf to keep his pet in check – not that his mongrel would be disobeying, after the deprivations and the beatings and the humiliations of the past months.  He smirked down at the huddle form of his pet, taking in the too-sharp bones starting to poke through paper-thin skin.  He stooped to grab the mongrel’s leash up, pulling far more gently than he would have otherwise.

“Come, mongrel.”  He turned away, pulling the leash against the resistance of his pet’s body, until the chain slackened.  There were soft, muffled whimpers behind him and the irregular beat of bare feet against dirt.  The mongrel’s broken ankle and this walk would ensure his pet never tried to run away again.  Gul’dan smirked at the thought.

Maybe he’d present the broken chieftain to his people when the Legion had conquered Azeroth, and show them what a good, well-trained dog their high chieftain had become.

\- o – o -

Something had changed.

Where before, Master had seemed content to leave him chained outside the hut or curled up on a woven mat inside the hut, the warlock now seemed almost… _reluctant_ to let him out of sight.  Varian couldn’t fathom why Master needed him at his side during meetings and rituals and whatever else the warlock did.  There was a curious thread of tension in the air, much like a bowstring pulled taut, just waiting to be released.  Master seemed intent on something to do with the massive green crystal now sitting on the field before the Tomb of Sargeras, under heavy guard from what seemed like every demon Master had under his command.

Varian shivered in terror as he passed by it, pressing himself as close to  Master has he dared.  Whatever that thing contained, it was monstrous – some heretofore lost general of the Burning Legion, this timeline’s Gul’dan (although the body trapped within still had a head, so…), or even Ner’zhul’s body.  What was left of it – either of them.  The crystal made Varian’s skin crawl, and Master had taken to chaining him near it when he conducted rituals near the tomb.  Varian crawled to the furthest extent of his leash each time and stayed there, rocking to soothe away the creeping horror of being so close to that… _thing_.

Regardless of what the crystal contained, Varian could tell that the general mood of every warlock and demon on the Broken Shore had become…hopeful, perhaps, if demons could feel such a thing.  Even Master was in a pleasant mood, as though whatever had angered him days ago was no longer so awful.

Anything that made Master happy was a good thing.

“Come here, mongrel.”  Gul’dan’s voice, low and full of sinister glee, broke into Varian’s thoughts.  He rolled onto his knees and crawled over, face creased in pain as each slow movement forward jostled broken bones and his damaged shoulder.  Master was treating him kindly and he had received more than adequate rations of water in the past few days, but the scraps from Master’s meals were still few and far between.  The lack of sustenance was sapping his energy, until obeying even basic commands seemed like an insurmountable chore.

Varian curled against Master’s side, head pillowed on the warlock’s thigh.  Master’s hand descended to his hair, carding through the lank strands almost affectionately.  Varian’s eyes slipped closed, enjoying the gentle affection while it lasted.

“Good mongrel,” Master said, voice distant and distracted.  Papers shuffled somewhere over Varian’s head and he relaxed.  A quill scratched against parchment, lulling him further into a half-sleep.  If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was in Stormwind, listening to his son write reports on the state of the kingdom.

The thought of his son distressed him and he made a soft noise of pain, shifting restlessly under his master’s hand.  Visions of Anduin falling by _his_ hand filled his mind’s eye, tinged red with blood and green fel-fire.  He made another low noise of distress, hands clenched in the rags he wore.  _He’d killed his son!_

Master’s hand tightened in his hair, jerking hard.  He yelped, this time in pain, and cowered away from his master’s hand.

“Behave, mongrel!” the warlock barked, obviously displeased with him.  Varian flinched, eyes rolling in terror.  His master raised a hand to strike him and he cowered away, shoulders hunched and one hand raised to shield his face.  “I said _behave!_ ”  Varian fell to the ground, clutching his cheek as he whimpered.  He’d killed his son and his son was working for demons and Master was angry with him and-

He squeezed his eyes shut as Master raised his hand again, cringing against the expected blow.

It never landed, and Varian opened his eyes cautiously, hand lowering slowly.  His master’s eyes gleamed, illuminating a fearsome look.  Varian cringed, eyes downcast as he huddled against his master’s shins, praying he wouldn’t be beaten again.  He’d murdered his own son, and…

“Perhaps you need a reminder of the bounds of my generosity…” Master purred, voice low and dangerous.  Varian let out a small cry of terror, pressing himself against his master’s legs as he shook in abject terror.  _Not the pit, not the pit,_ please _not the pit again…_

The warlock dragged him out of the hut and into the frigid rain beating down against the barren rock.  Varian stumbled after his master, hobbling on a poorly-healing ankle as he tried to match his master’s speed.  Gul’dan was angry, but the anger was directed elsewhere – not at him, not directly, but…  Master pulled him along the edge of the lake of fel-tainted sludge, finally coming to a halt under an outcropping which sheltered a veritable mountain of cages.  Each cage was occupied by an emaciated figure in barely recognizable clothing, each figure distinguishable only by their features.  Orcs, elves, humans, trolls, tauren… Every race that had participated in the failed assault was represented among the Legion’s prisoners.

His master shoved him to the ground and issued rapid orders.  Several cages were unlocked and the occupants were tossed to the bare dirt.  Varian stared blankly at them, wondering why his master had chosen these humans in particular.  They looked vaguely familiar, but…  One of the emaciated creatures looked up, eyes sunken in a gaunt face.  They widened.

“ _King Wrynn!_ ” the figure managed, thin, blueish lips trembling into a faint smile.  Varian’s eyes widened in recognition and shock – it was Roland, the captain of his guard.  His former captain of the guard.  Roland…  He looked up at his master, confusion etched onto his face.  His master didn’t want him distracted by petty things like his past.  He was more obedient when he wasn’t burdened with his past, Master said.

“Keep watching, mongrel,” Master ordered.

A demon knelt next to Roland and grasped the back of the man’s head in a too-large hand.  Roland’s mouth opened in a scream.  Nothing came out except a dry, rattling whistle of air.  He seemed to shrink in on himself, while the demon…

The demon now looked like an exact copy of Roland.  Better fed, perhaps, but still Roland.  The demon smiled, using Roland’s mouth, eyes gleaming red before fading to dull, unassuming mud-brown.  The real Roland collapsed, stick-thin arms unable to support his weight.  His mouth moved in a silent warning for his king, a plea to run.  Varian stayed where he was.  Master shook his leash and Varian looked away from the guard captain.

“Go to Stormwind,” Gul’dan ordered the demon – a dread infiltrator, Varian thought, a memory of a warlock’s wide smile flashing before his eyes.  “Cause some havoc, and bring me the whelp-king’s head.”

Varian looked up at his master eyes wide in dawning comprehension and horror.  His _son_.  His son was alive, not working for the demons and he was alive, and-  Varian buried his face in his master’s side, hands fisted in the warlock’s robes as he shook with repressed sobs.  His son was alive and well and still fighting the Legion.

“ _Please_ ,” he whined, words garbled by the muzzle.  “ _Not my son, please, not him!_ ”  He clutched at his master’s robes, still begging as tears began prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Gul’dan’s hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle.  “You are going to learn,” the warlock hissed, “that the Legion is untouchable.  And the next time you interrupt my work, I’ll have them bring you your precious Jaina’s head.”

Varian let out a long, low noise of distress, covering his face with his hands as his master swept away to speak with his underlings.  He sank to the ground in a heap, face buried in his hands as he shook with sobs of utter despair.  His master left him on the ground, surrounded by the dead and dying members of his personal guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varian needs a hug and a rescue. XD


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gul'dan gets what he wants. This will not end well for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Blood, dehumanization, non-graphic descriptions of injuries

The demon…failed.

Varian crouched where Master had left him, eyes darting between the demons his master was immolating out of sheer fury and Master himself.  In between bellowing words of power to set the less wary – or the slowest – demons on fire, Master paced and snarled and cursed his minions for their incompetence.  But Anduin was alive.  He _wasn’t_ working for the Legion.  (Or maybe he was, and that scene had been for his benefit, not to kill his son but Master didn’t have time for games like that when he was so focused on gaining entry to Suramar but then he might, and—  Varian’s head _ached_ when he tried to puzzle out his master’s logic.  Master knew more than he did, so there was obviously a purpose for everything.  …except immolating so many demons, maybe.)

Master’s temper cooled, eventually, and the warlock stalked back to his hut, Varian limping along after him.  The warlock tossed the leash aside upon entering his residence, letting Varian decide where to lay, apparently done with keeping an eye on his pet for the moment.  Varian curled up on the tattered blanket at the foot of his master’s bed, hands tucked under his chin and eyes closed.  Master continued to pace around the confines of the hut, still cursing his minions for incompetence.

Varian didn’t really care _what_ Master did, as long as he wasn’t being beaten.  He dozed off, lulled by the sound of Master shuffling papers and muttering parts of incantations under his breath and a quill scratching across vellum. 

 

“Mongrel!”

Varian startled, jerking awake and shooting upright from his place on the ragged blanket, eyes wide in alarm at his master’s displeased call.  The warlock must have called for him several times by now, if the look on his face was any indication.  Varian ducked his head, gaze fixed on the hide-covered floor.  Master sighed, sounding weary.

“Come here, mongrel.”

Varian obediently crawled across the floor, wincing behind his muzzle as his injuries began to pain him again.  His master grabbed the loop dangling from his collar and fixed the leash to it, standing up with a groan as he tucked a large tome stuffed with loose pages under his arm.

“My timetable has accelerated and I have need of you.”  Varian shuddered at the implication; still, his master didn’t seem _displeased_ , as he had been all those weeks ago when the paladins and the demon hunters and even the _druids_ had stolen from him.  (In fact, Master had been almost _cheerful_ the past few days.  As though even losing ground by miles to the various factions laying siege to the Broken Isles were no longer such a large thorn in his side…)  Varian followed his master out of the hut, limping as quickly as he could after the warlock.

 _I have need of you_.  Varian’s stomach churned unpleasantly at his master’s turn of phrase.  He had the awful feeling he would learn _exactly_ what that meant in short order.  The shields of Suramar flickered at the corner of his eye as Master stopped at the entrance to a shattered causeway that stretched over the bay towards the city that caused him so much consternation. The usual debris of a demonic occupation had been swept away – canons had been crammed at the entrance to the shattered bridge, and the little demons who groveled as though it were the only thing they could do were scrubbing at the tiles until they almost gleamed.  Several of his master’s apprentices and junior warlocks were busy with brooms, sweeping away dust from the chalk outline of a ritual circle.  Still more warlocks were waiting with buckets of ink and brushes, ready to etch the circle into the gleaming tiles.

Whatever the ritual was, it was _very_ important to need so much preparation.  Varian shuffled uncomfortably behind Gul’dan, sinking to his knees when the warlock dropped his leash.  He sighed in relief behind the muzzle and eased his weight off his damaged ankle, eyelids drooping again.  He was so _tired_ …  Master paced around the hut at night, muttering under his breath and aiming kicks at anything unfortunate enough to get in his way – including Varian, who had jerked awake and spent the rest of the night whimpering through the kicks that landed on his chest, ribs, and belly.  Perhaps, though, this ritual would bring Master some peace of mind and he would stop pacing at night and Varian could sleep without getting kicked awake by an irate master warlock.

Silly hopes, really.

“… _it needs more power_ …”

Varian jumped as a junior warlock grabbed his leash and pulled him forward, towards the ritual circle.  His master stood in the center, feet planted firmly against the tiles and hands outstretched, clearly trying to weave a spell and failing in his task.

“Mongrel, come here!”

Varian shuffled forward on his hands and knees, flinching as the warlock grabbed his arm and dragged a sharp knife across the soft skin on the inside of his arm, from elbow to wrist.  Master’s grip on his hand was strong, and Varian drooped against the hold as his blood continued to drip from his forearm, down to the ritual circle under his master’s feet.

It may have been the tears of pain in his eyes or the blood loss, but Varian thought his master seemed to shimmer.  Gul’dan’s mouth was moving as though he were speaking – not chanting a spell or weaving a complex ritual, but speaking to someone.  Varian was dimly aware that his master wasn’t speaking orcish or common.

As his sight faded to black, Varian wondered if his master had finally discovered a way to bring down Suramar’s famed shields.

\- o – o -

Varian awoke ensconced in his master’s bed, curled under thick fur blankets to ward off the chill of the island.  The arm Master had cut to fuel his ritual lay on top of the blankets, swathed from palm to just above the elbow in stiff white bandages.  The cuffs had been removed from his wrists and his un-bandaged arm had been slathered with thick, greasy yellow ointment.  There was no sign of infection in the divots the cuffs had left behind in his flesh, although the ointment made his wrist tingle unpleasantly.

He stared blearily at the wall of the hut, unwilling to push himself out of the soft, warm nest of blankets.  Master must have been _very_ pleased with him or the results of the ritual, to allow him to recover here.  He was loathe to alert _anyone_ to the fact that he was awake; being awake meant his reward would come to an end, and he would lose the warmth and comfort of the heavy furs.  He wriggled deeper into the nest, eyes slipping closed again as warmth and the musty smell of well-treated furs enveloped him.  This was _nice_.

“I know you’re awake, pet.”

Varian curled into a ball under the blankets, a low, sad noise escaping him.  His master chuckled somewhere overhead, not even seeming angry about Varian’s refusal to leave the warm nest.  An enticing smell filled the hut and Varian reluctantly peered through a small gap between the blankets and the edge of the mattress.  Master had brought _food_ , and if his good mood held…  Varian crawled out from under the bedding, furs slipping off his shoulders as he rolled up onto his knees, sniffing the air as his stomach growled.

“Come here, pet,” Gul’dan commanded, patting his thigh.  The warlock had bathed recently, skin glistening with droplets of water, and Varian could smell the faint aroma of whatever soap his master had used, making him all to aware of how filthy _he_ was.  He crawled forward obediently, gingerly resting his head on the warlock’s thigh.  His master’s clean robes would get dirty, and he’d be punished for being so filthy.  There would be no treats.  His expression turned morose, and the warlock only laughed, combing his fingers through Varian’s tangled hair in an almost affectionate manner.  Varian went limp under the warlock’s hand, nostrils flaring at the scent of food.  His mouth watered as his master ate, one hand rubbing circles behind Varian’s ear.  At least Master was pleased…  Varian’s stomach grumbled feebly over not being filled.

Gul’dan’s hands descended and Varian stiffened, relaxing only when the warlock unbuckled the muzzle and placed the stiff leather on the low table, almost out of Varian’s sight.  Varian licked his lips, swallowing as he thought about the scraps Master would let him have.  Instead of throwing it to the ground, as he usually did, Gul’dan held a morsel to Varian’s lips.  Varian took it, tentatively, and swallowed without bothering to try chewing.  He’d learned to just swallow when the warlock gave him meat.  There was less time to think about what he was eating and even less time to contemplate the origins.  Food was food, when he was so hungry his head spun just trying to form basic thoughts.  Master continued to hand-feed him morsels, still pleased by whatever results his ritual had brought him.

“We will be leaving this island tonight,” Gul’dan said, breaking into Varian’s thoughts.  He wondered why his master would bother sharing such important news with _him_ , of all people, but focused on each bit of food he was given instead.  Master wanted to speak – to _gloat –_ and Varian had no interest in interrupting.  “The _queen_ has _graciously_ lowered the shields for us, and will be there to welcome her new allies into the city.”  Varian could almost hear the smirk in Master’s voice.  He took the next offered morsel – a bit of bread slathered with jam – content to let his master gloat and revel in his victory.  The happier Master was, the more treats _he_ got.

He wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, in the same place he kept the wolf locked up, how Suramar had come to the conclusion that the Legion was the best option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes Arc One of Survivor's Remorse. Arc Two is going to be _fun_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins Arc Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Non-graphic violence, threats to children, and Gul'dan being Gul'dan.

Elisande watched in ill-disguised horror and disgust as Gul’dan’s guards dragged the… _thing_ out of the school some demons had been menacing.  A _school!_   The creature – some bedraggled, filthy, ragged little monster Gul’dan kept as a pet, apparently – fought back.  Elisande winced as the creature fell, howling behind the stiff leather covering the lower portion of its face.  The creature’s ankle was twisted oddly and the injury was clearly painful, but _still_ the creature fought – head-butting any demon foolish enough to come in range, and scratching and kicking the ones that didn’t.  Two children had fled the school while the demons were distracted by the creature’s attacks, shrieking in terror.  Elisande had sent a few of her guards after them with a quick, subtle flick of her fingers.  It wouldn’t do to have two lowborn children spreading rumors and inciting fear.  She’d have to do something about them.

The creature finally fell, pinned under the weight of two felguards.  The warlock, the foul orc who called himself Gul’dan, turned on the beast.  Elisande listened to the low, angry words.  The creature pressed to the stones snarled, and then… She would _never_ have treated even the most disobedient manasaber like that.  The Grand Magistrix winced and flinched in sympathy as the warlock began beating the poor creature with his staff.  The pained yelps and whines were beyond _pathetic_.  And the beast _had_ been trying to protect children…

Elisande perched on the edge of the uncomfortable bench denizens of the Lower City clearly favored, arms crossed as she tried to maintain her imperious attitude.  First, she had failed to find a timeline where the Shal’dorei would survive refusing the Legion’s offer.  (She had, somewhat, found one that would allow a portion of her people to survive. It was not ideal, but then…) Then, dear Thalyssra had started circulating rumors about _her_.  And Thalyssra had been her lover!  The only way to make this day _worse_ would be Sargeras reanimating himself.

The creature Gul’dan was beating let out a whimper, so full of despair and pain that Elisande finally leapt to her feet before she could stop herself.  The magic was at her fingertips, ready to fly with a single gesture and it would be so _simple_ to—

Gul’dan’s eyes gleamed with a sinister red light and Elisande slowly lowered her hand, swallowing.  Melandrus stood at her back, ready to fight and die for her.  She felt Thalyssra’s absence keenly, then.  The sparks of magic collecting at her fingertips died with a simple twist of her wrist.  She sat back down, movements slow and graceful, expression melting into one of cool disdain.  The warlock’s smile turned unpleasant, remarkably so, and the Grand Magistrix felt a finger of ice trickle down her spine.

“The mongrel simply needs some reminders of its _place_ ,” the warlock purred, smile becoming wider.  On the ground, the creature cringed, struggling feebly against the weight of the demons holding it down.  “And you need those… _children_ dealt with.  You don’t want unrest in your city, do you?”

Elisande’s eyes widened in horror.  “Absolutely not!”  She leapt to her feet again and heard the sound of metal on leather as all of her guardswomen drew their swords.  “ _I_ will decide the appropriate measures to take against my own people.  Deal with your _mongrel_ yourself, but leave _my_ people out of it!”  She spat the words as though they were poison, hatred boiling in her veins.  The Shal’dorei _would_ survive, she had seen it!  Not even this disgusting fiend would end her people.

Gul’dan’s lips twisted into a gloating smirk.  “If you care so much about the disobedient wretch,” the warlock purred, gesturing at the limp form of his pet, “you may keep it.  Consider it a… _token_ , of the Legion’s good will.”

Elisande looked at the wretched creature on the ground, and thought about all the timelines she had seen, where the Legion had become displeased with the Shal’dorei.  Her city, in flames.  Burned corpses lining the streets.  The proud Shal’dorei, reduced to the withered outside the shields of Suramar, with no one left to remember their proud lineage.  She forced a smile onto her face.

“Of course.  The Legion is quite generous, and I accept their… _gift_.”

Gul’dan smiled widely.  “The mongrel is yours, then.  Don’t bother feeding it.  The wretch will be dead in a few days anyways.”  He swept away, demons trailing after him in a loose mass.  Elisande watched them go, hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms so hard she could feel blood beginning to trickle through her fingers.

“Take my new… _pet_ to the palace,” Elisande snapped, unclenching her hands and forcing her body to relax.  “Bathe it, and make sure it’s covered with something other than those rags.”  She sneered in the direction Gul’dan had left.  “I’ll make sure the creature survives, if only to spite that bastard.”  The Grand Magistirx muttered the last bit to herself as her new pet was loaded into a palanquin none too gently.  The creature whined softly, but never moved from where it had been dropped.

Elisande scowled at the palanquin as it floated gently out of sight, heading towards the Nighthold.

_For my people_ , she thought.  It offered her no comfort.

\- o – o -

By the time she returned to her rooms in the Nighthold, Elisande felt as though she had been repeatedly kicked by a large and particularly vindictive moose.  She had known about Gul’dan for less than a week, and already her new ‘advisor’ was proving to be a trial.  The Eye of Aman’thul was now being used to power some obscene ritual for the Legion, and the demons had hauled some awful crystal up to the Nightspire. Elisande had overseen its installment in the rafters, skin crawling the entire time.  Whatever was in that thing…

She sank down on one of the many couches in her private sitting room and toed her slippers off, flinging them in the general direction of the wall.  Briefly, she entertained the idea of opening the passage to the floor below so she could visit her consorts – the darlings _would_ want news of the outside world, after she had ordered them confined for their own safety.  …Perhaps after she had changed, and bathed, and ordered the clothes she had worn today (and those wretched slippers) _burnt_.  She wanted them burned, just so she never thought about today again.  The thought of demons in her beloved city, of them putting Suramar under their _protection_ , left a bitter taste in her mouth.  The alternative, unfortunately, was the utter destruction of Suramar and its inhabitants.  She had seen that.  At least this way, some might yet live through the nightmare.

Elisande gave a loud, undignified groan and slouched across the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes and feet propped up on the arm of the couch so her toes pointed at the ceiling.  She had a headache that wasn’t going to be solved with a cup of mana-thistle tea building behind her eyes.  Ten thousand years without so much as a riot…and now the Legion was going to undo her hard work.

_My people will live_ , she reminded herself, eyes closed as she rubbed them with her thumb and forefinger.  _We will live and we will endure, and the Legion_ cannot _change that._   The Eye of Aman’thul had shown her that much.

Her door creaked open and Elisande sighed heavily, not ready to act dignified as her station demanded.  “What do you need, Nirelle?” she asked, voice heavy with the weight of ten millennia of regrets.  She opened her eyes and tilted her head over the opposite arm of the couch, looking at her handmaiden upside down.  Nirelle looked worried, hands twisting together until her knuckles turned lavender against her dark blue skin.  She bit her lip and then, apparently deciding she couldn’t delay any longer, spoke.

“Your new pet, Your Radiance,” Nirelle replied, voice soft and hesitant.  So unlike her – the girl was so bold; she’d have been a perfect fit for the Duskwatch, but had chosen to stay with her twin instead.  That she _was_ being hesitant made Elisande sit up and spin on the cushions to face her handmaiden.  “A thousand apologies, Your Radiance,” Nirelle rushed on, “but we had to take your pet to the physician.  It had so many injuries and kept biting people in the baths when we removed that muzzle and then one of the guards knocked it out and-”

Elisande held up a hand to forestall the girl’s continued babbling, headache now _pounding_ behind her eyes.  “It’s alright,” she soothed, voice calmer than she would have expected of herself.  “It is good that you took my new pet to the physician.  I want all beasts under my care looked after.  Even filthy mongrels from the Legion.”  Her nose wrinkled in displeasure as she remembered how utterly _filthy_ her new pet’s mane of hair had been.  “Did you shave the beast’s head? Or did you manage to actually clean the filth out?”

“…we cleaned it, Your Radiance,” Nirelle smiled, lips twitching.  “It’s _brown_ , under all that grime.  And so dark!  I’ve never seen hair that dark before!  Not without dye, anyways…”

Elisande smiled, genuinely this time.  “I’m sure it looks lovely, now that it’s free of all that filth.”  She sat up, massaging her temples.  “Return to the physician, and bring my pet up to my quarters when she says you can take the beast.”  She waved her hand, dismissing the girl.  Nirelle bowed, shutting the doors as she left.  When the girl was gone, Elisande pushed herself off the couch and padded across the cold marble floor to the cabinet she kept her liquor in.  Arcwine was on the other side of the room, but she needed something a bit… _stronger_.

She sighed heavily through her nose as she studied the contents of the cabinet, fingers tapping on the crystal panes guarding the alcohol.  _Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—_

Elisande stopped tapping her fingers through sheer force of will, teeth gritted in annoyance.  She was the Grand Magistrix of Suramar, not some petty lowborn having a fit over some petty grievance!  She grabbed a wineglass from inside the cabinet and threw it as hard as she could at the wall, watching in satisfaction as the delicate crystal shattered.  Her attendants could clean _that_ up too.  She grabbed the brandy from the back of the cabinet and pulled the stopper out with her teeth, spitting it away as she stalked towards her bedchamber.  She was going to get absolutely _smashed_ , and deal with the consequences _later_.

Thank the stars she’d cancelled the council sessions for today…

\- o – o -

Elisande was awake and nursing a horrific hangover when a timid knock sounded at her bedchamber door.  She looked up from the book she had been perusing – a gift from an over-eager suitor, some ages past – and pursed her lips.  While the hangover was setting her mood back in line, the headache pounding behind her eyes served only as a reminder as to just why drinking to excess was a _horrible_ idea.

“Enter!” she called, wincing as her voice echoed around the room.  Nirelle entered, followed by her twin.  Between them, they held the trailing end of a leash, feet braced against the tiles to keep whatever was on the end of it in place.  Elisande leaned back in her chair, a coolly unimpressed look on her face.  “You brought my pet up, girls?”

“Yes, your radiance!” Lyira chirped, smile as blinding as full moons.  Her smile became a bit more strained as the creature on the other end of the leash strained backwards.  Elisande understood now why it was taking Lyira _and_ Nirelle to bring her new _pet_ up – the thing was fighting, again.  “His name is Varian, your radiance,” the girl added.  “Some demon calling itself Calydus was bothering the physician.”  Her expression was one of utmost distaste and Elisande almost smiled, echoing the sentiment.

Elisande stood and strode gracefully over to her attendants.  “Go, get some bedding for my pet.  I miss having company up here in the mornings.”  The girls dropped their hold on the leash, Lyira more eagerly than Nirelle.  They bowed, and slipped out through the door, squealing as Varian growled.  Elisande frowned, shook her head once, and sent a shock of magic through the silk leash.  The growling turned to whimpers of pain and fear, and Elisande smiled.

At least her pet would bow to her wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Elisande is _not_ an improvement.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arc two continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varian's thought process gets a bit more exploration.

The wolf – he was Lo’gosh, he was Varian he was a wolf what was he what _was he_ – paced, long, loping strides that took it – him, he, he was a he his name was… What was his name? – around the confines of the pen the elves had placed him in.  He stopped and lifted his nose to the air, nostrils flaring as he scented for prey-not-prey-elves.  There were no scents in this cold place and he lowered his muzzle, growling, lips drawn back from teeth that were wrong (they were right he was hu…. _what was he?_ ).  The wall he paced alongside remained where it was, taunting him with the promise of freedom mere inches away but keeping it so far out of his reach.  If he tried to free himself from the pen he was shocked.  Master had shocked him and beaten him and… Where was Master?

Master had given him up, given him to the elf who wore a crown but that was wrong, he was Master’s good mongrel and Master wouldn’t have given him away.

He stopped pacing, whining low in his throat. 

The elves who had bathed him, had combed his mane free of snarls and mud and tangles and _filth_ had returned.  He turned to face them, blinking slowly.  They had been kind to him, had removed the hated muzzle and had cleaned him and let him rest and had petted him and had-  They had been _kind_. And they had brought something else with them, this time.  His stomach rumbled and he thought of food, of scraps from Master’s plate and raw meat that made his belly churn and bits of bread slathered with jam and honey and…  His hands twitched upwards to his throat, fingers tapping the bare skin before dropping back to his waist.  His collar was gone.  Master would be displeased, and how was he supposed to follow commands without a prompt and the sharp pain from the barbs lining the collar and Master had kept him safe the collar was his safety what was wrong why had Master given him-

 _Clothes_.

He stared intently at the cloth draped over one elf’s arm, eyes narrowed.  His mouth curved upwards in a hopeful smile.  Clothing.  Warmth and those were clothes; they were for him!

The wall lowered, and he stayed stock still, fixated on the simple garments the elves had brought him.  Flimsy silk, dark blue…wrapped around his waist, a kilt?  (He remembered, vaguely, another elf with antlers and a deep, booming laugh.  His head ached to remember and he brushed the vague recollection aside.)  The taller elf smoothed the kilt down around his hips and stepped back so the other could do something near his neck and-

Another collar.  He touched the smooth band around his neck, eyes lighting up in delight.  Simple, smooth leather without spikes or any means to hurt him or damage his fragile neck.  He ran his fingers over it, a soft noise of delight escaping him.  Master had hurt him and beat him and forced him to obey and pulled the spiked collar if he didn’t comply but this was gently and no one could use it to harm him like Master. (But Master had been generous?  Master knew best and he’d deserved the punishments and pain…)

The prey-not-prey-elves clipped a leash to his new collar and tugged gently.  He was a wolf person wolf pet – _no!_ He was… He growled, head aching fiercely, temples pounding as too many thoughts beat against his brain.  …He was a wolf. Lo’gosh.  Not Varian, Varian was locked up and safe and _here not here_ and Lo’gosh was here so he was a wolf but he was walking and wolves were... He was Lo’gosh.

The elves leading him squealed when he growled, low and dark in his throat.  His lips curled up, not in a smile – smiles were for people he was a mongrel Master said so Master was right he was… He was something else – but a warning.  The elves flinched and yanked his leash, too hard to be comfortable.  He’d scared them.  _Bad mongrel_.  There was no punishment, the elves just kept walking, pulling him along by the leash and the loop on his new collar.  Master would have beaten him.

Lo’gosh cringed when they stopped, finally, at a grand set of doors.  There was something behind them, something like the air before lightning hit, a sense of burning and fire and the smell of rain.  Not rain, rain was gentle, a compromise after the storm.  He yelped in surprise as the elves touched the glowing ball of energy – the lightning that wasn’t – and they—

Reappeared in a well-appointed room.

He looked around, confusion warring with terror and pain.  There were low couches scattered around, and books lying open on low tables and beds around the perimeter of the room, and the elves were opening a hidden door that was part of the wall but wasn’t now and leading him up to a grand set of double doors and- _pain_.  Lo’gosh yelped and jerked away, trying to pull the leash away from whoever held it now.  Pain flooded through the leash, shocking him again and forcing him to his knees as he whined in pain, noise echoing around the stone room.  The elves who had brought him here skittered away, disappearing through the door that wasn’t, leaving him with…

The queen.

Lo’gosh stared up at her, head tilted to the side in confusion.  Master hadn’t liked her, had thought…but then Master had given him away, to this woman, but the Nightborne – the elves prey-not prey – were horrible pests and Master wanted them eradicated but he was here with the queen and she held his leash not Master so Master had given him away.  He’d fought Master again, protected that school.  (There had been children, terrified and crying and a demon had been menacing them and they were innocents who shouldn’t have been harmed so he’d disobeyed Master and fought and tried to protect them, and… His head _ached_.)

The queen stared down at him, and then, unexpectedly, reached down to comb her fingers through his mane.  She spoke to him, voice soft and words indistinguishable.  The pleasant sensation of being scratched behind the ears made him smile, in pleasure this time.

Perhaps, then, this wouldn’t be too bad.

\- o – o -

Elisande watched her new pet pad around her chambers through lidded eyes.  The poor thing was starved, worse than she had realized when she had first lain eyes on him at the Vigil.  His skin was stretched too tightly over too-fragile bones, and motley bruises were splashed across his back, ribs, and what she could see of his legs.  Her handmaidens had wrapped dark blue silk around her pet’s waist in a reasonable facsimile of a kilt.  It did _nothing_ to disguise how ugly her pet looked.

 _Poor thing_ , she thought, visions of her peoples’ possible futures dancing through her mind again.  _Is this our destiny? To be starved and beaten on the word of a warlock?_

The beast padded back to her side and slumped down on the floor next to her feet, broad shoulders hunched and head bowed.  His dark hair spilled over his shoulders, long and ragged looking – the posture spoke of an animal that had been beaten too many times to look up.  Only his eyes – such a curious, beautiful shade of blue – gave lie to that thought.  Those were the eyes of something too intelligent to keep chained for long.  The feral glint didn’t ease her mind either.  If the warlock knew what he had leashed…

But perhaps not.  The warlock seemed too arrogant and too sure of his own superiority to care about a pet’s intelligence – or the danger that intelligence posed, when coupled with a beast’s feralness and ferocity.  _She_ , at least, would not make the same mistake.  The only way to control a beast like that was to be kind and hope for the best.  At least that part would be easy, after what poor Varian had gone through with the warlock.  (She would have to use the Eye to find her pet’s history.  That would make controlling him easier.)

She put her hand on her pet’s head, rubbing the soft, dark mane gently.  Her train of thought died and then reignited in anger as Varian began trembling under her touch.  The Grand Magistrix removed her hand and watched some of the tension bleed out of Varian’s tense shoulders.  Perhaps, for the time being, she would refrain from petting him.  She’d have to undo quite a bit of damage before _that_ was a good idea.  (She’d have to get him muzzled before her consorts found out about her new pet and demanded to see him.)

Elisande leaned back in her seat and kicked her feet up on the footstool, head tilted to the side as she watched Varian relax in increments.  What a curious beast he was.  Out of curiosity, she patted her thigh, silently encouraging him to lay his head there.  There was a look of fear in his eyes, quickly hidden, but he complied.  He favored his left arm – the one with two matching, hideous scars on the shoulder – but his cheek came to rest on her thigh.  Varian was, now that she thought about it, quite protective of that arm.

She dropped her hand to the dark strands of hair that had fallen across her thigh and began playing with them, staring out at the window.

Well, at least today couldn’t get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just imagine Elisande's reaction when she finds out about Varian... *evil laughter*


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up, and also down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elisande starts to see the fallout of bowing to the Legion, but at least not _everything_ is terrible...

Elisande paced around her chambers, arms crossed and hands tucked under her armpits.  She had used what remained of the Eye’s power for her own use and looked for her new _pet_.  The worst part wasn’t that she’d squandered the little power the Legion had so generously allowed her to keep, but that she had _found_ her new pet.  She worried her lower lip between her teeth to stifle a few choice curses, spinning on the balls of her feet to pace in the opposite direction.  Only three of the timelines she had discovered her pet in ended with something other than her immediate death.  All the rest had ended poorly, either with her death at Gul’dan’s hands, or at the hands of the angry so-called _champions_ as they stormed the Nighthold.  (She had kept that timeline to herself, and as Gul’dan seemed disinclined to view other timelines, there was no risk of it being discovered.  That one little thread of time… Well.)

She sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees and chin resting on the backs of her hands.  No matter how she tried to work around the issue, Varian would continue to be a problem.  It was best that no one outside the palace learn of his existence.  (If only for her own peace of mind.)  Elisande looked at her pet, a sad smile on her face.  The poor thing was curled up on a thin mat at the foot of her bed, dark hair trailing over his back and the white fabric covering his new resting place.  He’d drained the bowl of water Nirelle had thoughtfully left for him an hour ago, and had fallen asleep shortly thereafter.

Elisande grabbed a piece of dried shadefruit from the bowl next to her bed and bit into it, chewing contemplatively as she watched the slow rise and fall of Varian’s chest as he slept, untroubled by anything.  She grimaced as the bitter flavor of the shadefruit exploded on her tongue, only to vanish a few seconds later.  So much like memories and maudlin thoughts, she decided.  Well.

A whimper broke through her thoughts, drawing her attention back to Varian.  He whimpered again, legs kicking feebly at the floor as he contorted into an odd shape, still curled around his hands.  His face had twisted into such an _awful_ grimace, full of terror and loss.  There were wet tracks on his face, and Elisande frowned.  Gul’dan had broken a proud man into a mindless beast, true, but even beasts had thoughts and emotions.  They could still remember pain.

If she had one opportunity – just _one_ – to kill Gul’dan, she would gladly take it.

Varian awoke as she stood up.  Elisande smiled tiredly down at him, and he relaxed a fraction as she padded by to her liquor cabinet.  She could finish off the brandy and then sleep until the evening stars shone again.

This was going to become a habit, she could tell.

\- o – o -

He was _starving._

The elves prey-not prey were starving him like Master starved him except there were no treats and the water was a trap-not a trap and Master only starved him when he disobeyed except he had behaved for his new Mistress and had done everything right so it was not for disobedience except there was still no food, and –

Lo’gosh paced away, growling and snarling under his breath as his stomach grumbled feebly in protest.  The prey-not prey elves had given him _poison_.  There were bowls offered to him when Mistress-not-Master ate, but he had tried them and had been ill and no one had punished him for disobeying an order to eat but he couldn’t he tried and it was poison he was starving and-

There was water, at least.  They were kind, so kind, at least he wasn’t thirsty and the prey-not prey elves had laughed when he had tipped the bowl over in his eagerness to drain it before it could be snatched away like it was a game not a game a trap a trick punishment and— His head ached again, from anxiety instead of hunger and he was so hungry anything he’d eat anything but the poison would kill him and he didn’t… He didn’t want to die like that.  He had a pup. Somewhere.  He thought he had one, but he’d killed his pup and hadn’t and he had and…he didn’t want to die like that.

He began gnawing on his lower lip again, shuffling back onto the thin mat the elves not-prey had given him.  It was comfortable, so much nicer than lying on dirt or rough hides when he had belonged to Master except Master had been kind to him and he was a mongrel – he was a _good_ mongrel – and he didn’t have a bed or a mat he was supposed to be on the floor and nothing was _right_ anymore…

The wolf (not a wolf, still a person not a person mongrel _good mongrel_ ) stiffened as a hand landed heavily one his shoulder.  He should be bristling, fur standing on end and teeth bared but he didn’t have fur or fangs so it wasn’t _his_ memory and- He was _shaking_.  He whined in confusion as panic settled into his mind again as the hand on his shoulder squeezed. He was shaking he was scared which meant he was in danger or he was going to be punished and-

His teeth closed around flesh and then there was _pain_.

Through the haze of tears, he could see the elf prey-not-prey stagger backwards, eyes wide, one hand clutched to her chest and blood dripping between her fingers.  Lo’gosh felt some remorse and whined softly, apologetically.

There was more pain, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

 

Lo’gosh shook his head irritably, growling behind the new muzzle.  More magic sparked, too close to his skin and eyes and he growled again.  His hands had been bound behind his body while the new muzzle was strapped to his face and the elves prey-not-prey who smelled like animals had not removed any of the restraints.  The wide leather bands were soft, supple, smoother than the demon-hide he had worn as Master’s good mongrel.  He growled, teeth bared, straining against the chains holding him down.  He couldn’t snap his teeth behind the muzzle, couldn’t attack or lunge or head-butt, he was trapped and they could beat him or hurt him and there was nothing he could do and-

He growled, tossing his head in irritation as the elves _laughed_.  He twisted away as they tried to pat his head, as though he were amusing.

He was not a _pet_ ; even Master had acknowledged that and had muzzled him and beaten him and chained him with a collar that hurt physically and— A new elf approached, carrying a bowl that smelled like fish and salt and the sea.  Lo’gosh scented the air as the elf drew closer, stomach rumbling.  Nothing was more important than the smell of salt and fish and the sea.  The cramps were becoming painful.

The elf prey-not-prey with food picked a piece out and held their hand out, palm up, tantalizing morsel resting in the center.  A trick, a trap, the food would be taken away and they’d beat him and— He was so _hungry_.  Mind whirling at the thought of starving or being tricked, falling for the trap but it was food and they wanted him to eat – he bent his head down and lipped at the morsel that smelled like salted fish.  Magic sparked across his skin, but he could eat with this muzzle on.  No more biting or fighting with his teeth – good mongrels don’t bite their masters – but he could eat or be handfed by Mistress or one of the elves.  His belly cramped and he accepted the next piece eagerly, stomach growling softly.  It was food— _real_ food, not poison—and he could fill his grumbling belly.

He ate, snapping each piece up eagerly, and licked his lips when the bowl was empty, looking expectantly – hopefully – at the elf with the bowl.

There was no more food.

\- o – o -

Elisande could have cried tears of relief.  In the past week, _nothing_ had gone right.  There were riots in the Lower City that the Duskwatch and members of the palace guard had had to put down.  People had died.  The two children who had been at Siren’s Vigil had been spreading stories, and since there was no _official_ version of what had happened…  The missing teacher hadn’t helped, since his brother was apparently a _much_ beloved tavern keeper.  That every noble was now apparently licking the demons’ feet _really_ wasn’t helping.  Duskmere had sent their Heir Primus to receive whatever gifts the Legion would bestow, and had done so _publically_.  It was almost as much of a disaster as House Lunastre’s public brawl over whether they would support the occupation.  (Anarys had always been a bit of a disaster, and their older sister even more so.)  Gul’dan was being smug and had so _generously_ placed more of his warlocks within the districts to ‘keep the peace’.  But, as to her tears of relief:  The menagerie keepers had found something her pet could eat.

She nibbled on a piece of shadefruit bark, trying to get her mind off the horrors currently befalling her city.  At least her pet could eat, and she could undo some of the damage Gul’dan had done; and while she was dreaming, the Legion would leave her city and apologize on the way out for the damage.

Elisande grumbled something incoherent around a tough chunk of shadefruit bark and picked up her pen.  She needed to stop thinking about fish and the Legion and horrors and do damage control.  No one was going to like it, but no one ever did.  She smiled bitterly and swallowed her shadefruit.  Perhaps she could soften the blow with a party for the Lower City.  And one for the nobles too, although Melandrus could handle that one.  (He couldn’t botch _that_ , at least.)  The Grand Magistrix leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples tiredly with one hand.  There were so many things going wrong, so many things that _could_ go wrong and now there would have to be rationing (as if it hadn’t been bad enough the first time)…

She startled at the insistent knocking at her door, swearing as she upended her inkwell over the order she had been drafting for the guard.  She began blotting the ink up, still cursing under her breath, and scowled in the direction of the door.  “Enter!” she barked, dabbing at more spilled ink.  At least it had only been a draft.

Nirelle entered the room, carrying a pitcher of arcwine.  Elisande frowned, feeling her ever-present headache worsen.  That was normally Lyira’s task…

“Where is Lyira?”

“Still crying about being bitten,” Nirelle replied glibly.  “She _said_ she’ll bring dinner up, but she’s probably going to whine until someone else does it.”  The girl shot a look at the beast currently sprawled on his back at the foot of her mistress’s bed and smirked.  She kept up a steady stream of chatter as she poured arcwine and cleaned up Elisande’s desk, placing a fresh well of ink and a stack of parchment within reach.  True to Nirelle’s character, the chatter was dryly delivered and precise.  The Lower City was restless, and the quelling of the riots hadn’t helped matters.  One of the children from the Vigil was missing, presumed dead.  Only the teacher’s brother was keeping another riot from exploding.  (He might know something the others didn’t, but Nirelle couldn’t verify the rumor.)  The nobles had somehow learned of Varian’s existence and speculation was now running wild about life outside the barrier.  House Stelleris wanted to organize a hunt for more humans, since foxes were last season’s fad now.  (Elisande was going to turn that request down.  It was _not_ a good idea.  Still, it _was_ a Stelleris petition…)

“Thank you, Nirelle,” Elisande finally sighed, cutting off her handmaiden’s ramble.  She sipper her arcwine, feeling her headache subside somewhat.  Migraines were becoming frequent, this past week.  At least her pet’s presence had been soothing.

“And Anaster passed on the message that he and the others want to join you for dinner,” Nirelle added as she bowed out of the Grand Magistrix’s chambers.  Elisande turned in her seat to look at Varian, still sprawled across the foot of her bed, snoring.  She drained her arcwine and put the goblet back on her desk.

Well, at least her consorts weren’t causing problems.

Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It could have gone worse.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elisande plays politics and Gul'dan's games, and is happy with neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one is happy, but at least no one is dead. Yet.

Lo’gosh could smell demons.  His dreams were filled with them, and the scent of _more_ demons wafting up from below the open windows choked his senses an made him wretch from the cloying, rotten-sweetness of it.  He growled under his breath, pacing away from the windows until the length of his new leash – rope or silk not leather not barbed or made to hurt him the elves prey-not prey were kind so kind where was Master Master Master… _nononononoNO_ – pulled taught and he began pacing in the next direction at the full extent of the white leash.  The scent was the same as a vague memory of a fight…but he didn’t fight unless Master-Not Master told him to, ordered him to kill blond children who…

He whined, fear churning in his belly.

The wolf-not a wolf a person person _person I’m a person_ paced around the room, for lack of other entertainment.  The servants of the elves-not prey had grown used to his loping stride around the confines of the sleeping room.  No one, except the prey-not prey girl he had bitten twitched anymore.  He was not made for a cage, no matter how finely appointed.  Leaving was not permitted, but he was not meant for cages and Master-Not Master had known that beaten him for it and hurt him hurt him but never in a cage and-

Hysterical laughter bubbled up past his lips and he turned towards the windows.  The twin moons glowed brightly in the sky, White Lady and Blue Child shining down at Azeroth, hiding the scars of the Legion’s attacks.  He sat down as close to the windows as his leash would allow and let out a low, mournful howl that echoed oddly across the city.  He whined softly, waiting for a harmony to echo back, for another wolf for _anyone_ to echo back and lift the burden of solitude.

He was not made for cages.  His head dropped until his chin hit his collarbone, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He was not made for a lot of things…

\- o – o -

Elisande felt a muscle under her eye twitch as Ly’leth Lunastre’s speech continued.  She had to admire Lady Lunastre’s boldness – so much like Thalyssra, if she thought about it too much – but _really_.  Speaking so boldly against the Legion was suicide.  The demons were here, and here they would remain.  Dear Ly’leth didn’t seem to understand that it was for the good of _all_ Nightborne, not just the Grand Magistrix’s whims.  (And it was too late to have her assassinated so Anarys, inexplicable disaster that they were, could take over. Elisande had checked.)

She resisted the urge to rub her forehead.  Her headache was building up to a migraine, and there was no real way to deal with them discretely in public.  Dealing with them in private was almost impossible too; her pet had started growling when she tried to drink them away, and she doubted the muzzle would stop Varian if he was determined enough.  (The menagerie attendants had told her to lock Varian in a kennel or put him outside if she wanted to drink in peace.)  As soon as this session was called for the morning, she would get a pot of tea and soak in her bath until the headache went away.

Elisande picked her sigil up from the table and rapped it against the matching symbol on her table.  “That is _enough_ , House Lunastre.  You _will_ be seated.”  She scowled at the arrogant little girl until she sat, arms crossed. Anarys was smirking next to her.  (It was such a pity Anarys couldn’t take House Lunastre’s seat.  Pesky by-laws…)  “The Legion will stay, and the rationing of arcwine _will_ occur.”  Her sigil glowed deep green and chimed softly.  “House Duskmere is recognized.”  She dropped the sigil back into its spot and sat back.

The changes Ruven Duskmere had undergone were monstrous and frightening, but he was still in his father’s seat.  Despite the changes, he still filled the spot admirably and carried House Duskmere to glory.  Pity his father was semi-retired, though.  (And an even greater pity that he was frequently in the company of men several hundred years his junior instead.)

“House Duskmere thanks the chamber,” Ruven replied, giving her a socially-appropriate bow.  The spines arching delicately from his back and shoulders glittered like the carapace of some menacing beetle.  “Duskmere will lend our House Guard to the vineyard and the Lower City, should the Duskwatch require our aid in these… _trying times_.”  His teeth looked sharper when he smiled, and Elisande felt her skin crawl.  “Duskmere cedes the floor.”  He bowed and seated himself again.

“House Stelleris stands with Duskmere!”

Duskmere the Elder might lack in discretion, but he was second to young Coryn Stelleris.  Young Coryn was young, untried, and his parents had lost their minds the day they had named him Heir Primus instead of his twin sister.  And he was desperately, _madly_ in love with Duskmere the Younger.  Where Duskmere went, Stelleris would follow.  She smirked.

“House Stelleris is recognized,” Elisande smiled, headache receding a little in the face of her amusement.  She’d have Nirelle place a discreet bet for her on when Duskmere the Younger would finally acknowledge Coryn Stelleris’ infatuation.  Titters swept the chamber as young Coryn’s face flushed, and the boy barely managed a bow of appropriate depth.

“Stelleris will add an equal number of our House Guard,” Coryn stuttered, words spilling out of his mouth as though he couldn’t remember how they worked.  “We…we can do no less than any else.  …um.  Stelleris cedes the floor.”

Elisande nodded approvingly as Coryn sat back down, face still flush with embarrassment.  Lacking in any political sense whatsoever, but so unfailingly loyal to Duskmere – and where Duskmere went, Stelleris would follow.

It was a good thing Duskmere was loyal to Suramar…

The rest of the chamber slowly followed Coryn’s lead, pledging a token number of their own guards to the defense of Suramar.  Lunastre pledged guards, grudgingly.  (Ly’leth would protect her interests in the Lower City, if nothing else.)

The session concluded after that, and the idle chatter at the end of session turned away from politics and to the latest fashions that everyone should sport at the parties later in the week.  Everyone who had pledged guards wanted to dress the House Guard up too, just so the city knew who cared the most.  Elisande slouched on her throne, a pleased smile on her face as the nobles trickled out through the grand doors to the assembly.  The Shal’dorei would survive.

When the last of the nobles had departed and the great doors sealed, Elisande pushed herself up with a groan and removed her headdress.  She tucked the monstrosity of metal and maroon leather into the crook of her arm and swept out of the assembly chambers via her private entrance.  A servant took the headdress from her, bowing deeply as they backed away.  Nirelle and Lyira appeared out of the shadows, falling into step behind her as quietly as owls on a hunt.

“Lyira, run ahead and tell the attendants to draw me a bath,” Elisande murmured.  “Then run to the kitchens and tell them I want honey tea sent to my chambers.”  She glanced at Nirelle.  “Any news, Nirelle?” she asked quietly as Lyira scurried down an adjacent corridor, towards the keep’s kitchens.

“The warlock is waiting in your quarters.  I told him to go away, but he refused.”

Elisande pulled a face, headache pounding against her eyes.  “Wonderful,” she grit out.  “What does he want?”

“….He said he would tell you himself.  And then he threw me out.”

 

Elisande paused at the door to her bedchamber, breathing deeply through her nose in an attempt to regain her center and avoid looking as though she had run here – even though she had very nearly sprinted, Nirelle trailing in her wake.  Dear, loyal Nirelle, still standing at her elbow, even though that _warlock_ was in her mistress’s _private_ bedchamber.  The idea was grating – that the warlock could enter _her_ private chambers, while she was barred from going near his (not that she wanted to).  It was all a power struggle, and while she could maintain the illusion that it was even, she was still losing ground.  Badly.  The grand magistrix scowled, took a deep breath once more and squared her shoulders before pushing the door open.  Whatever chaos lay beyond the doors, she would not allow the warlock to get the better of her.

Gul’dan was seated on her sofa – she would burn it later – smirking at the door.  The expression only confirmed Elisande’s suspicions; whatever news the warlock wanted to impart, he could have easily had one of his minions deliver it.  This was to let her know that _he_ was the one who controlled the boundaries, and that _he_ was the one truly in control here.  It grated on her, almost as much as her new pet’s soft whimpers.  Varian’s head was pillowed on the warlock’s thigh, although it looked as though her pet had struggled against his old master.  There were several deep scratches on one shoulder, and she could see one wide, blue eye under the tangle of dark hair, glimmering with tears.  Every so often, the poor thing twitched under Gul’dan’s hand, whimpering softly.

“You’ve let the mongrel become quite ill-mannered,” the warlock said, as though discussing the weather.  “If you can’t keep your pets in order, how do you expect to control your city?”  Disdain dripped from the warlock’s tongue and Elisande sneered at him.

“Did you come to impart something, or are you just here to visit your _former_ pet?” Elisande asked, striding across her bedchamber to the cabinet she stored her liquor in.  Damn her pet’s opinion on alcohol, she was _not_ going to deal with the aftermath of this little visit while sober.  She heard Gul’dan chuckle behind her and grabbed the apple brandy from the bottom shelf.  It didn’t age well, no matter _what_ Tel’arn thought, and this was nearly a hundred years old.  Ought to do the job…

“One of my generals will be taking residence in the guard’s wing of the Nighthold.  Your _captain_ will have to sleep elsewhere.”

Elisande ground her teeth together as she poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass.  “Nirelle, tell Spellblade Alluriel to move to summer quarters by sunrise.  I want no interruption to this… _general’s_ …movement.”  Her people would live.  Her people would live.  She repeated it like a mantra, images of beaten, broken, whimpering Varian flashing through her mind.  They would weather the storm, and they would survive.

“Perfect.  Now, keep the mongrel in line, or dispose of it.”

Elisande waited until Nirelle nodded that Gul’dan was out of earshot before she turned to face her pet and her handmaiden.  “What did Varian do?”

“I believe he bit the warlock, mistress.”

Elisande laughed in delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight between Elisande and Gul'dan would be glorious, and would surely last at least ten seconds.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party in the Lower City, and exactly no one is pleased by the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to "Drago has been a lazy fuck who cared about jack all for three months".

Her consorts were thrilled at the prospect of a party, even if they would only be allowed to attend the one in the noble quarter, and only for a fraction of the time everyone else would be there.  Elisande adored the silly creatures, and adored them even more for being so understanding about the constraints placed on them.  (Of course, poor Anaster had run into several demons and that foul creature Gul’dan, and had swiftly convinced the others to heed her orders without complaint.  The poor boy had been left quite shaken by the encounter; a party was just what he, and all the rest, needed to take their minds off the demons.)

They had been even more thrilled when she had opened the passage to her private chambers.  They were rarely allowed in, and even more rarely allowed to spend the night.

Elisande hid a smile as her consorts slipped through the passage with a whisper of silk, giggling quietly.  Anaster stopped beside her, staring contemplatively at his lady’s chambers.  The scar stretching from the corner of his mouth and down to his collar pulled as his face twitched.

“I do not like this, my starlight,” he murmured, watching his fellow consorts drape themselves rather artfully over the couches in Elisande’s private sitting room, chattering happily.  “I know you have a reason for everything, but demons? And that….that _thing_?”  The boy shuddered, crossing his arms.  “Bad enough he foisted that ugly creature of his off on you.  Stars _know_ what spells he’s got on it to-”

“Anaster, we will speak later.  For now, we are going to enjoy ourselves.” Elisande smiled.  As silly as Anaster was, he could be quite practical when it mattered most.  His gold eyes narrowed and the scar pulled his face taught as he scowled.

“As you wish, my starlight,” he replied, bowing.  He brushed past her, hips swaying in time to music Aristide had begun to play on a lute he’d brought in with him.  Elisande leaned against the wall, eyes unfocused as the music washed over her.  Of all the things she had seen, looking for some thread where her people survived… Perhaps she would be lucky, and this was the timeline where her consorts were spared instead of butchered by angry so-called champions.

 

Elisande had almost managed to relax under the ministrations of her consorts – nothing like a foot rub and a dozen sweet young men getting her anything she might want to make her more comfortable – when the door to her bedchamber creaked open.  She sat up, dislodging Aristide’s hands from her shoulders.  Fari, who had been dozing with his head in her lap, squeaked as he went tumbling to the floor.  Elisande’s eyes narrowed as she saw her new pet huddled in the doorway, staring at her consorts with an equal mix of fascination and naked terror on his broad, ugly face.  Anaster’s words came back to her.  _Who knows what spells Gul’dan put on his pet…_

“Is…is that your new pet?” Fari was looking towards the bedchamber from his new spot on the floor, silver eyes wide.  “What a strange creature!”  He turned his narrow, heart-shaped face up at her.  “Will he come out to us?”

Elisande sighed, feeling her relaxing morning slipping away as her consorts began attempting to coax Varian over to them with bits of shadefruit.

\- o – o -

Lo’gosh rumbled in displeasure under the hands of Mistress’s….other pets? They must have been other pets, because Mistress regarded them with the same exasperated fondness she regarded him.  Except they didn’t wear collars _or_ muzzles – pampered pets, the ones everyone knew where to return them to (he thought of pets in a grand white hall made of stone, of a tall man with blond hair laughing and blue eyes and a pet _That’s a gryphon not a pet Varian, run along now_ and…his head hurt again), pets that knew not to bite were good pets _bad mongrel, don’t bite me again_.  He lay still under their hands, eyes rolling in terror but still hidden behind his mane of hair.  They couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see them, he could pretend it was someone _anyone_ else touching him and not growl or bite or snap – good mongrels let master touch them and didn’t bite.

Eventually, they stopped, and he crept away from them, eyeing them as warily as they were eyeing him, until he was safely on the balcony and bathed in the first rays of sunlight as the sun began rising.  Mistress’ pampered, favored pets were curled up on cushions they’d taken from the seats and the bed and were yawning now, clearly preparing to sleep.  Lo’gosh shot a desperate, pained look at Mistress, silently begging for…he didn’t know what.  A cushion or a reprieve or to hide in the darkened confines of her bedchamber? Mistress had protected him before, she’d scared Master away and tended to the cuts on his back and did something to his shoulder to stop the ache which meant she cared and he’d been a good mongrel and he hadn’t bitten anyone and surely she’d be kind to him _now_ and-

He trailed off with a whine, half-curled on his side on the balcony.  His good arm came up to protect his injured shoulder and he drew his knees up to his chest, whimpering softly as badly healed bones dragged against each other.  He wasn’t a bad mongrel, he wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t and-

Mistress touched his shoulder and he whined, but didn’t jerk away.  He was a good mongrel, master wasn’t here to beat him but mistress would if he misbehaved he was good he was good he could always be good and- She scratched gently at his scalp, staring beyond him to one of the ruins.  One of the ruins Master had liked, had done his rituals in but now they were here with the…master didn’t like these, but he was with Mistress now and she was kind so she wasn’t awful and master was wrong _master was never wrong something is wrong_ bad _mongrel!_

He shuddered under Mistress’s hand and stared at the fel-blasted ruins in the distance.

 

Sometime later, Lo’gosh stirred and turned away from the balcony.  Mistress had departed to her bed chamber several hours ago, stepping over her favorite pets, cooing softly down at them as they waved her sleepily off to her bed, yawning like so many cats in a pile.  More than one of them had attempted to draw him over to the pile they had somehow all shifted into, but Lo’gosh had refused.

He returned his gaze to the blasted ruins across the bay, eyes wide and breath coming in harsh pants.  Mistress was planning something but he didn’t know what but he was her loyal new mongrel – good mongrel, good mongrel, have a _treat_ mongrel – so he would be included, dragged along like a disobedient hound except he was a good mongrel so maybe he wouldn’t be dragged this time.

He rubbed his chin along his forearm, wincing as poorly-healed bones and lacerated skin began aching and burning.  The elves prey-not prey had taken away the bandages and the sticky yellow salve when they’d cleaned him up the first time, but hadn’t replaced them and the servants pulled his hair or flicked their fingernails against his face when he tried to lick the cuts to make the pain stop and he hadn’t stopped licking them but it still hurt and his throat ached because…he couldn’t remember why.  His arms hurt.

But maybe he would go outside soon, and something could be done about his arms and how much pain he was in from them.  The wolf in his chest crooned softly, soothingly, and Lo’gosh curled up on his corner of the balcony, thinking of the days of being pain-free that seemed more like a dream than something he’d actually experienced.

But he would endure.

He always did.

\- o – o -

Elisande ground her teeth together, smile rather strained now as her annoyance became harder to contain.  Somewhere above her, children were shrieking in laughter as they ran away from their caretakers in a game of tag no one but them had agreed to.  Below, in the menagerie proper, the chaos wasn’t any better.  She much preferred the children of her nobles – they were quieter, could sit still for more than a few minutes, and they were _far_ better behaved. …Of course, the ones _she_ interacted with personally were being groomed for positions of importance and were on their best behavior as a result.  The best _these_ ragamuffins could hope for was…what, being a craftperson?  Joining the lowest ranks of the Duskwatch?  Live in an alley and become one of the Withered?

…The last had been uncharitable of her.  With the way things had gone over the last ten thousand years, withering was inevitable for those not prosperous or lucky enough to receive arcwine on a regular basis.  She forced herself to relax and thought of Thalyssra’s warm embrace and whispered plans for revising arcwine production in an attempt to make her smile less forced and something approaching charitable.  The sharp sound of laughter and the excited squealing of children cut into her thoughts and she looked up, sighing in disgust.

Oculeth.  And he was having it out with Aulier.  _Again_.

Well, Aulier was having it out with Oculeth.  Oculeth was too batty to understand that this was a matter of pride for Aulier, who thought Oculeth was mocking him.  Oculeth just thought having his wispy creations fight Aulier’s too-pampered pets was good fun.  Her hand drifted down to Varian’s head again.  Petting him soothed her more than it did him, but he’d ceased snapping and merely trembled under her touch.  And, to her great relief, he hadn’t lunged or snapped at any of the lower denizens of the city when any of them had dared approach her.  Of course, none of _them_ would approach her outlander pet.  Whether it was for his looks or the warning the muzzle gave them, she didn’t know – and didn’t particularly care.

The party for the lower city was going about as well as could be expected, given that it had opened with Lieutenant Strathmar announcing that arcwine rationing would only get stricter from this point.  The Duskwatch lieutenant had avoided being pelted with rotten fruit only by virtue of the fact that none was on hand – and that the rabble had been mollified, somewhat, by the prospect of party with free-flowing arcwine.  (Elisande had instructed the Duskwatch to turn a blind eye to anyone smuggling a few bottles out, and to note who they were in the meantime.  They would be watched carefully, and if they kept the arcwine for themselves, they would be left alone.  If not…well.)

She sighed and leaned back, still petting Varian’s dark hair with the tips of her fingers.  Aulier was shouting incoherently, words punctuated by Oculeth’s laughter.  If only she hadn’t promised to stay here, looking unguarded and unworried for the whole awful event…  She shot upright, her heart thudding dangerously fast in her chest as a small child shot forward, _towards_ her pet.  The creature had _not_ reacted well to being rushed by the guard, and even with his muzzle and the threat of punishment – each worse than the last, no doubt – had not been enough to dissuade him from fighting against anyone who approached too quickly.  Strathmar had learned that the hard way, and was still wearing an eyepatch to cover the damage.

And…

Instead of snarling and snapping his teeth at the child, Varian sat there and allowed the shrill little beast to wrap skinny arms around his neck in a tight embrace.  Elisande chided herself for reacting in terror; she _had_ seen Varian’s own brat in her examination of the timelines.  He adored the boy, and would never deliberately harm a child.  She watched in barely-masked irritation as the human bumped his forehead against the child’s, like a rather affectionate manasaber.  She hid her scowl just as the child pulled back, managing to smile kindly for the brat.

Ah yes.  One of the ones from that school in Siren’s Vigil.  She’d acquired Varian after he’d disobeyed Gul’dan to defend it.  Elisande sank back in her seat, a polite smile on her face as the child thanked her pet profusely, again, for saving her.  Varian’s lips had turned up in a smile.  Such an odd look for her grim pet.  It irritated her to no end that a lowborn _child_ had managed what she and her consorts combined _hadn’t_.

Oh well.  Perhaps she’d get lucky and something could be done about her pet’s mood.

(And Gul’dan would dress in pink and declare his love of shadefruit tarts.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Um. ....Sorry about taking so long between updates. Between Nano and the start of SAD season, it hasn't been a good time for writing.

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly title: "Untitled Nano Project"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bring Him Hope (Bring Him Home)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923046) by [emrys (livingshitpost)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys)




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